JAMES MUNROE AND CO.'s PUBLICATIONS. 



PLEASANT MEMORIES OF PLEASANT LANDS. 

By Mrs. L. H. SIGOURNEY. 

illustrated by two engravings on steel. 
16mo, Cloth, gilt. 

"This; little volume is marked hy tlie same characteristics that 
distinguish the fnir author's precedin? productions — an easy. £jrnce- 
ful, and often felicitous flow of versification — a pure or elevated 
strain of thous^ht and feelinj^, and an entire freedom from the nfcda- 
tion which forms the besetting sin of the rising generation of Poets." 

— Boston Daily Advertiser. 

"Out of her Pleasant Memories of Pleasant Lands, Mrs. Sigotirney 
has made quite a pleasant book. She pours out poetrv with the 
same facility apparently as prose. But whether she employs lilank 
verse, rhyme, or simple prose, she gives utterance to those kindly 
feelings and that pure sentiment that find a ready echo in the 
bosoms of all." — Christian Examiner. 

" It has all the charms which characterize the works of William 
Howitt, besides its poetical illustrations of some of the most roman- 
tic spots known over the wide earth." — Christian Register. 

" We have read this volume with interest, and although the author 
has not indeed (as she forewarns us) led us into new paths in the 
old world, yet she has contrived, by her very agreeable variety of 
prose and verse scattered along the way, to invest former acquaint- 
ances with much that is new and entertaining. She has apostro- 
phized, in different metres, many of the places she visited, and her 
poetry, as is with her invariably the case, is instructive and moral." 

— Boston Recorder. 

" The beautiful gleanings of such a mind as Mrs. Sigourney, and 
the more beautiful arrangements in such a volume, are priceless. 
* Carpere et collegere ' belongs to few." — United States Gazette. 

" These memories of the lands visited hy the author are truly 
pleasant. She scarcely passes a spot of any interest in France or 
England, without bestowing upon it a few verses from her fluent 
pen. These are interspersed with passages of aorreeable description 
and narrative in prose." — New York Evening Post. 

" It would be difficult for me to express the pleasure with which I 
first looked at, and then immediately went through, the beautiful 
duodecimo of Mrs. Sigourney, — her ' Pleasant Memories of Pleas- 
ant Lands.' The typographical execution is matter of pride ; both 
prose and verse resemble honey of roses, — delicacy, sweetness ; the 
kindest extract of the best of objects and purest of sentiments." — 
Philadelphia National Gazette. 

a 



JAMES MUNROE AND CO.'s PUBLICATIONS. 



TWICE TOLD TALES. 

Bv NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 

FIRST AND SECOND SERIES. 

2 vo]s. 12mo., eles-nntly printed on clenrfype and fine paper, 
and neatly bound in cloth, g-ilt. 

" To this little work we would say. ' Live ever, sweet, sweet liook.' 
It comes from the hand of a man of f^^-enius. Every thing about it 
has the freshness of morning and of May. * * * * The hook, though 
in prose, was written hy a poet. * * * A calm, thoughtful face seems 
to be looking at you from every page. * * One of the most prominent 
characteristics of these tales is, that they are national in their char- 
acter. The author has wisely chosen his themes among the traditions 
of New England. * * Another characteristic of this writer is the ex- 
ceeding beauty of his style. Il is as clear as running waters are. In- 
deed he uses words as mere stepping-stones, upon which, with a free 
and youthful bound, his spirit crosses and recrosses the bright and 
rushing stream of thought. * * In speaking in terms of such high 
praise as we have done, we have given utterance not alone to our own 
feelings, but we trust to those of all gentle readers of the Twice Told 
Tales. Like children we say, ' Tell us more.' " — North American 
Review. 

"The Tales are worth hoice telling and a dozen readings." — 
Boston Courier. 

"A book like this, evincing a mind of such peculiar organization, 
may, or may not become popular ; but whether they read it or not, 
the public maybe assured, that in this unpretending volume by a 
countryman and neighbor, they will find more of that which indi- 
cates thought in the writer, aiid begets thought in the reader, than 
in nine-tenths of the English reprints, which are so eagerly de- 
voured." — Boston Daily Advertiser. 

" Mr. Hawthorne's style is rich, refined, and graceful, and the pres- 
ent volume is an ornament to the literature of our country." — Bos- 
ton Atlas. 

" This modest volume, which comes before us without preface, or 
any sort of an appeal to the public regard, is well calculated lo stand 
on its own merits, and to acquire enduring popularity. The author 
possesses the power of winning immediate attention, and of sustain- 
ing it, by a certain ingenuous sincerity, and by the force of a style 
at once "simple and graceful. In all his descriptions, whether of 
scenes or emotions, nature is his only guide. In short, in quiet hu- 
mor, in genuine pathos, and deep feeling, and in a style equally un- 
studied and pure, the author of ' Twice Told Tales ' has few equals, 
and with perhaps one or two eminent exceptions, no superior in our 
country. We confidently and cordially, therefore, commend the 
beautiful volume to the attention of our readers." — Knickerbocker. 



TAMES MUNROE AND CO.'s TUBLICATIONS. 



NOTES ON CUBA. 

Containing an account of its Discovery and Early History ; a de- 
scription of the face of the country, its population, resour- 
ces and wealth, its institutions, and the manners and 
customs of its inhabitants ; with directions to 
travellers visiting the Island. 

By A PHYSICIAN. 

12mo, pp. 359. 

" The main purposes of this volume is to serve as a guide and a 
companion to mvalids, travellers, and others who may visit Cuba. 
There is no other work of this character in the English language, 
nor in any language is there a book which embraces the information 
which is contained in this. The directions to travellers for their 
guidance, comfort and conduct, are very full, and we may add, very 
necessary. Then we have a methodical arrangement of matter 
which presents us with a complete and exceedingly interesting nar- 
rative, seeming to anticipate every question, and to draw a full pic- 
ture of the country, of its inhabitants, their employments and char- 
acteristics. The towns upon the island, with its general scenery, 
curiosities and striking objects, are described in full. The history, 
the geology, the government and commerce of the island, are noticed 
at length, and present the results of an evidently laborious investi- 
gation, and a faithful use of the eyes. The resources whiih a trav- 
eller or visiter will find for occupying his time, or for amusing him- 
self, have their full share of space. The whole volume, coming 
from a source which stamps it with a high authority, is a valuable 
addition to our libraries, and will be much prized by those who read 
it." — Christian Register. 

"A well written, carefully printed, and instructive book, by a 
Physii.;ian. No invalid who seeks the blissful climate of Cuba, 
should leave home without this best of all guides and counsellors. 
We are delighted with the valuable contribution which he has made 
to history, as well as with the intelligence and good judgment he 
evinces as a physician. In recommending the Notes on^Culia to 
medical readers and voyagers, it would be unjust not to recommend 
it also to the whole reading community." — Boston Medical Journal. 

" Notes on Cuba, by an American Physician. This is a truly val- 
uable and interesting book, both to the invalid intending to visit 
Cuba in search of health, and to the general reader, and supplies a 
gap in literature wh?ch it is surprising has not long ago been filled. 
The work is well written, and afibrds very pleasant reading. The 
author is known to us, and we can assure the readers of the work 
thai it is entirely authentic, and entitled to the most entire confi- 
dence." — New Bedford Bulletin. 



JA3IES MUNROE AND CO.'s PUBLICATIONS. 



PIERPONT^S POEMS. 

THE AIRS OF PALESTINE, with other Poems. By 
John Pierpont. IGmo. Plates. Cloth, neat. 

" Mr Pierpont has long been regarded as one of ihe best poets 
which this country has produced, it not tlie best, — and his wnlings 
have been justly admired in this country and in Europe, by all who 
could distinguish between tinsel and gold, — between the dull and 
false glitter of the counterfeit gem, and the pure and sparkling brill- 
iancy of the true one. Many of these poems contain all the leeling, 
the beauty, the richness of genuine poetry, — and what is more, they 
are all of an elevated and pure character, — some are moral, some 
are patriotic, some are devotional, hut all are calculated to interest 
the leelings, charm by the strength and purity of language, and im- 
prove the character of man." — Boston Mercantile Journal. 

•' The appearance of this volume will be hailed with unmingled 
satisfaction by every lover of genuine poetry. Without making any 
invidious comparison, we may remark, that in dignity and force of 
language, Mr. Pierpont has no superior among living writers ; and 
his manly independence of thought is displayed as olten in his verse 
as in the eloquent pulpit discourses which have won lor him the 
high reputation which he enjoys as a moralist and a divine.'" — 
New Yorker. 



Translated from Uhland, Korner, Eiirger, and other German 
Lyric Poets. With Notes. By Charles T. Brooks. 

12mo. pp. 360. 

" In this volume we have presented to us a string of beautiful 
pearls. We think the volume well worthy a place among the se- 
lected poetry of the day." — Christian Review. 

" Mr. Brooks, by this volume of translations, has done a good 
service not only to the friends of German literature, but to all lovers 
of genuine poetry. In these pages, those persons who are so fond 
of calling Germany the laud of shadows, and of stigmatizing its lit- 
erature as alike mystical in thought and awkward in expression, may 
find proof enough of their own ignorance. Here we have a body of 
Lyric Poetry, breathing the healthiest thought and the noblest sen- 
timent, illustrating in language at once simple and melodious, all the 
great spheres of life, — whether the church or Khe nation — the altar 
or the battle-field, — the wild hunt or the calm home ; speaking to 
the English as well as the German heart of the joys and griefs, the 
hopes and fears, the triumphs and the disappointments, which the 
Lyric muse loves to celebrate." — Providence JouinaL 



^ 



©^^ 



^t, ^^ ^i^-^^' 



•^li.J.. 



v\. 







■/A^z^'^zJ /^ .4'(-<^^'(- a^ Jamedt^trn 



D.Z.fflovtr. Jf. 



BOSTON". 
PtTBLISHEU BY JAMES MUNROE & CO. 
1845. 



'^'^-^'^^ V^J9. <P^&^. / f/^^ 



SCENES 



IN 



« 



MY NATIVE LAND. 



BY 



MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY. 



" On piercing thorns our fathers trod, 
In this bright land of ours ; 
To soften for their sons the sod, 
Now strewn with fruit and flowers." 

Miss H. F. Gould. 

" Then, the green hills around, look so very pleasant in the sun-shine, with 
homes nestling among them, like dimples in a smiling face." 

Mrs. L. M, Child. 



BOSTON: 

JAMES MUNROE AND COMPANY. 

M DCCC XLV. 



.y%%^i^.^\AW 






Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1844, by 

James Munroe and Company, 

in the Clerk's office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetta. 



r 



o 



f 



0'^ 



BOSTON: 

PRINTED BY THURSTO!>f, TORRT AND CO. 

31 Devonshire Street. 



CONTENTS. 



« » 



NIAGARA, 3 

FIRST CHURCH AT JAMESTOWN, 21 

FALLS OF THE YANTIC, ........ 32 

MONTAUK POINT, 41 

MONTE-VIDEO, 52 

HUGUENOT FORT, 60 

THE CHARTER-OAK, AT HARTFORD, 72 

THE GREAT OAK OF GENESEO, 82 

SUNRISE AT NEW LONDON, 89 

THE VILLAGE CHURCH, 99 

FUNERAL AT NAZARETH, 109 

FALLEN FORESTS, 117 

THE HOUSATONIC, 133 

PASSAGE UP THE CONNECTICUT, 141 

THE HERMIT OF THE FALLS, 148 

HIGH STREET GARDEN, 102 

BUNKER-HILL MONUMENT, 175 

HOME OF AN EARLY FRIEND, 185 \^' 

THE STOCKBRIDGE BOWL, 200 

VALE OF WYOMING, 207 

REMOVAL OF AN ANCIENT MANSION, 229 

PRAYERS OF THE DEAF AND DUMB, 239 



NAHANT, 246 

ROSE-MOUNT, 251 

MONTPELIER, 257 

THE NEWPOR r TOWER, 2G2 

AirrU.MN ON STATEN ISLAND, 207 

EVENING DEVOTIONS IN A PRISON, 273 

MOONLIGHT AT SACHEM'S WOOD, 281 

TRENTON FALLS, 292 

THE SNOW-STORM, 298 

THE DESERTED NEST, 303 

THE WASHINGTON ELM, 313 

FAREWELL TO NIAGARA, 317 



SCENES 



IN 



MY NATIVE LAND. 



NIAGARA. 



Up to the Table-Rock, where the great flood 

Reveals its fullest glory. To the verge 

Of its appalling battlement dr^w near, 

And gaze below. Or if thy spirit fail. 

Creep stealthily, and snatch a trembling glance 

Into the dread abyss. 

What there thou see'st 
Shall dwell forever in thy secret soul, 
Finding no form of language. 

The vexed deep, 
Which from the hour that Chaos heard the voice 
'' Let there be light," hath known nor pause, nor rest, 
Communeth through its misty cloud with Him 
Who breaks it on the wheel of pitiless rock. 
Yet heals it every moment. Bending near, 
Mid all the terror, as an angel-friend. 
The rainbow walketh in its company 
With perfect orb full-rounded. Dost thou cling 
Thus to its breast, a Comforter, to give 
Strength in its agony, thou radiant form, 



NIAGARA. 



Born of the trembling tear-drop, and the smile 
Of sun, or glimmering moon ? 

Yet from a scene 
So awfully sublime, our senses shrink. 
And fain would shield them at the solemn base 
Of the tremendous precipice, and glean 
Such hallowed thoughts as blossom in its shade. 



This is thy building, Architect Divine ! 

Who heav'dst the pillars of the Universe. 

Up, without noise, the mighty fabric rose, 

And to the clamor of the unresting gulf 

Forever smitinor on its ear of rock 

With an eternal question, answereth nought. 

Man calls his vassals forth, with toil and pain : 

Stone piled on stone, the pyramid ascends, 

Yet ere it reach its apex-point, he dies, 

Nor leaves a chiseled name upon his tomb. 

The vast cathedral grows, with deep-groined arch, 

And massy dome, slow reared, while race on race 

Fall like the ivy sere, that climbs its walls, 

The imperial palace towers, the triumph arch, 

And the tall fane that tells a hero's praise 

Uplift their crowns of fret-work haughtily. 

But lo ! the Goth doth waste them, and his herds 

The Vandal pastures mid their fallen pride. 

But thou, from age to age, unchanged hast stood, 

Even like an altar to Jehovah's name, 

Silent, and steadfast, and immutable. 



NIAGARA. 



Niagara and the storm-cloud ! 

To the peal 
Of their united thunder, rugged rocks 
Amazed reverberate, through depths profound 
Streams the red lightning, while the loftiest trees 
Bow, and are troubled. Shuddering earth doth hide 
In midnight's veil ; and even the ethereal mind, 
Which hath the seed of immortality 
Within itself, — not undismayed, beholds 
This fearful tumult of the elements. 

Old Ocean meets the tempest and is wroth, 
And in his wrath destroys. The wrecking ship. 
The sea-boy stricken from the quaking mast, 
The burning tear wrung forth from many a home, 
To which the voyager returns no more, 
Attest the fury of his vengeful mood. 
But thou, Niagara, know'st no passion-gust ; 
Thy mighty bosom, from the sheeted rain, 
Spreads not itself to sudden boastfulness, 
Like the wild torrent in its shallow bed. 
Thou art not angry, and thou changest not. 

Man finds in thee no emblem of himself : 
The cloud depresseth him, the adverse blast 
Rouseth the billows of his discontent. 
The wealth of summer-showers inflates his pride, 
And with the simple faith and love of Him 
Who made him from the dust, he mingleth much 



6 * NIAGARA. 



Of his own vain device. Perchance, even here, 
Neath all the sternness of thy strong rebuke. 
Light fancies fill him, and he gathereth straws 
Or plaiteth rushes, or illusive twines 
Garlands of hope, more fragile still than they. 

But in one awful voice, that ne'er has known 
Change or inflection since the morn of time, 
Thou utterest forth that One Eternal Name, 
Which he who graves not on his inmost soul 
Will find his proudest gatherings, as the dross 
That cannot profit. 

Thou hast ne'er forgot 
Thy lesson, or been weary, day or night. 
Nor with its simple, elemental thought 
Mixed auorht of discord. 

Teacher, sent from God, 
We bow us to thy message, and are still. 

Oh ! full of glory, and of majesty, 

With all thy terrible apparel on. 

High-priest of Nature, who within the veil, 

Mysterious, unapproachable dost dwell. 

With smoke of incense ever streaming up. 

And round thy breast, the folded bow of heaven. 

Few are our words before thee. 

For 'tis meet 
That even the miorhtiest of our race should stand 
Mute in thy presence, and with childlike awe, 
Disrobed of self, adore his God through thee. 



NIAGARA RIVER. 



*' Deep calleth unto deep, at the noise of thy water- 
spouts." Most appositely did the poet Brainerd, in 
his beautiful apostrophe to Niagara, quote from the 
inspired Minstrel, "deep calleth unto deep." Simple 
and significant also, was its Indian appellation, the 
'' water-thunderer." To the wandering son of the 
forest, 

" whose untutored mind 
Saw God in clouds, or heard him in the wind," 

it forcibly suggested the image of that Great Spirit, 
who in darkness and storm sends forth from the skies 
a mighty voice. 

The immense volume of water, which distinguishes 
Niagara from all other cataracts, is seldom fully real- 
ized by the casual visitant. Transfixed by his emotions, 
he forgets that he sees the surplus waters of these vast 
inland seas, Superior, Huron, Michigan, and Erie, 
arrested in their rushing passage to the Ocean, by a 
fearful barrier of rock, 160 feet in height. He scarce- 
ly recollects that the tributaries to this river, or 
strait, cover a surface of 150,000 miles. Indeed, how 
can he bow his mind to aught of arithmetical compu- 
lation, when in the presence of this monarch of 
floods. 

Niagara river flows from south to north, and is two 
mihs in width when it issues from Lake Erie. It is 
majestic and beautiful in its aspect, and spreads out at 
Grand Island to a breadth of three miles, like a mir- 



8 THE RAPIDS. 



rored lake. At the Falls, it is less than a mile broad, 
and after emerging from its terrible abyss, flows on of 
a dark green or violet color, until it reaches the 
whirlpool. There, compressed to between 5 and 600 
feet, it rushes upon a bed of sharp rocks, boiling and 
breaking with great velocity and suction. After many 
curves, it regains its original course, and having 
cleared itself of every conflict and trouble, glides with 
a placid loveliness to the bosom of Ontario. Alto- 
gether, it is a most noble river. Sprinkled with many 
islands, of a depth of 2 or 300 feet, and in some places 
unfathomable, it flows between banks sometimes 500 
feet in height, having a descent of nearly 350 feet 
from its efflux at Erie, to its junction with Ontario. 
Not like those streams, which at some seasons run low 
in their channels, and at others swollen with a " little 
brief authority," inundate the surrounding country, it 
preserves the uniform characteristics of power and 
majesty. 

The Rapids commence about three quarters of a 
mile above the Falls. The river, after passing Grand 
and Navy Islands, becomes suddenly compressed, and 
opposed by ledges of rugged rocks. Over a succession 
of these it leaps with impetuosity. The total descent 
is not more than sixty feet, but the effect is grand and 
imposing. It is more picturesque on the American 
shore, where the water is less deep, and the conflict 
more palpable. 

These Rapids are exceedingly beautiful, and it is 



ISLANDS, 9 



desirable to secure an apartment overlooking them, 
where the traveller, in the intervals of exploration, may 
contemplate them from his window. They are an 
appropriate preparation for the grandeur of the principal 
cataract, a preface to a volume of unutterable wonders. 

The intersection of the river at the termination of 
the Rapids, by Goat Island, gives to Great Britain 
and America a distinct, though unequal partnership 
in this glorious cataract. The former, or great Horse- 
shoe Fall, has far greater breadth, and quantity of 
water. The latter has somewhat more height, and is 
surpassingly graceful, though less terrific than its com- 
peer. The intervention of Luna, or, as it is sometimes 
called, Prospect Island, causes another subdivision on 
the American side, and forms the Central or Crescent 
Fall, a cascade of surpassing beauty. The Great Fall 
on the Canadian shore, is 2100 feet in extent, and 158 
in height; the American 164 in height, and, including 
the Crescent Fall, has a breadth of more than 1000 
feet. In comparing the British and American Falls, 
we cannot do better than to use the words of an Eng- 
lish traveller, the Rev. Dr. Reed. " The character of 
one is beautiful, inclining to the sublime, that of the 
other sublime, inclining to the beautiful." 

A bridore of 150 feet, constructed with immense 
labor and peril, connects the main land of the American 
shore with Bath Island, from whence a shorter one of 
about thirty yards gives access to Goat Island. This 
extends half a mile in length, and a quarter in breadth, 



10 GOAT ISLAND. 



and is one of the most delightful spots that can be 
imagined. It is covered with lofty and magnificent 
trees, and in its rich mould a great variety of wild 
plants and flowers find nutriment. It is an unspeakable 
luxury here to sit in solitary meditation, at once lulled 
and solemnized by the near voice of the everlasting 
torrent. It seems the most fascinating of all the haunts 
in this vicinity ; the one where we earliest linger, and 
latest depart. We take leave of it, as from a being of 
intelligence, to whom we have given our heart. It 
has shielded us, when our senses were awe-stricken 
and overpowered, like the cliff where the prophet was 
hidden when that majesty passed by which none can 
" see and live." 

Embellishments have been spoken of for this island, 
rustic temples, and winding gravel-walks. It would 
be a pity to see them here : a desecration to remove 
for them one of those trees which for ages have struck 
their roots deep in the soil, every green leaf baptized 
by the spray of the cataract. Modern decoration would 
but detract from its solemn beauty. A few seats placed 
here and there, beneath the deep umbrage, or at those 
points of view, where the sight of the falling waters 
best blend with their thunder-hymn, might be a 
convenience, as would also some improvements for the 
sake of those of weak nerves, in the carriage-drive 
around its shores. 

At the entrance of this sweet and sacred solitude, a 
neat cottage, with a fine garden attracts the eye, 



VILLAGE OF NIAGARA. 11 

where flowers, fruits, and other refreshments may be 
obtained from a worthy couple, natives of Caledonia's 
romantic clime. It was pleasant to perceive the 
restrictions on a board placed over the gate, that the 
hallowed day of rest would be exempted from this 
traffic. Here, and at other places in the neighbor- 
hood, are a great variety of Indian fancy-work, in 
beads, bark, and porcupine quills, from whence keep- 
sakes for friends at home may be readily selected. 
The vicinity of the Tuscaroras, Senecas, and Oneidas, 
with the industry of their females, keeps the market 
well supplied for its various purchasers. 

The village of Niagara possesses sufficient accom- 
modations in its large hotels, for the throngs of 
visitants who resort thither during the summer. It has 
two churches, several mills, and about 600 inhabitants. 
A descent of 200 feet by a stair-case brings you to 
the Ferry, which conducts to the Canadian shore. At 
the base of the first flight of steps is a delightful view 
of the American Fall. The beauty and grace of the 
watery column, so fleecy, so sparkling, so flecked with 
the brightest emerald hue, surpass all description. 

The view from the boat while crossing the Ferry is 
unique and impressive. It gives the first strong idea 
of the greater magnificence that awaits you. You 
are encompassed by an amphitheatre of towering rocks 
and hills. Fragments of rainbows and torrents of mist 
hover around you. A stupendous column rises, whose 
base is in the fathomless depth, whose head wrapt in 



12 FERRY. 



cloud, seems to join earth and heaven. It strikes you 
as a living personification of His power who poured it 
" from the hollow of his hand." You tremble at its 
feet. With a great voice of thunder it warns you not 
to approach. The winds spread out their wings and 
whelm you in a deluge of spray. You are sensible of 
the giant force of the tide, bearing up the boat, which 
like an egg-shell is tossed upon its terrible bosom. 
You feel like an atom in the great creation of God. 
You glance at the athletic sinews of the rowers, and 
wonder if they are equal to their perilous task. But 
the majesty of the surrounding scene annihilates selfish 
apprehension, and ere you are aware, the little boat 
runs smoothly to her haven, and you stand on the 
Canadian shore. 

Hitherto, all you have seen, will convey but an im- 
perfect impression of the grandeur and sublimity that 
are unfolded on the summit of Table-Rock. This 
is a precipice nearly 160 feet in height, with flat, 
smooth, altar-shaped surface. As you approach this 
unparapeted projection, the unveiled glory of Niagara 
burst upon the astonished senses. We borrow the 
graphic delineation of a gentleman,* who nearly forty 
years since was a visitant of this scene, and thus 
describes it from the summit of Table-Rock. 

" On your right hand, the river comes roaring 
forward with all the agitation of a tempestuous ocean, 
recoiling in waves and whirlpools, as if determined to 



* D. Wadsworthj Esq. 



TABLE-ROCK. 13 



resist the impulse which is forcing it downward to the 
gulf. When within a few yards, and apparently at 
the moment of sweeping away, it plunges headlong 
into what seems a bottomless pit, for the vapor is so 
thick at the foot of the precipice that the torrent is 
completely lost to the view. 

" The commencement of the rapids is so distant, 
and so high above your head, as entirely to exclude all 
view of the still water, or the country beyond. Thus 
as you look up the river, which is two miles wide 
above the falls, you gaze upon a boundless and angry 
sea, whose troubled surface forms a rough and ever- 
moving outline upon the distant horizon. This part 
of the stream is called the great Horse-shoe Fall, though 
in shape it bears more resemblance to an Indian bow, 
the centre curve of which, retreating up the river, is 
hid by the volume of vapor which rises in that spot, 
except when a strong gust of wind occasionly pressing 
it down, displays for a moment the whole immense 
loall of water. This branch of the river falls much 
less broken than the eastern one, and being, like all 
the large lakes, exactly of the color of ocean water, 
appears in every direction of the most brilliant green, 
or whiter than snow. The face of Goat Island makes 
an angle with it, and approaches more nearly to a 
parallel with the western bank ; when the second 
division of the river appears bending still more towards 
you, so as to bring the last range of falls nearly parallel 
with the course of the river, and almost facing you. 



14 FOOT OF TABLE-ROCK. 

These falls are more beautiful, though not so terrific as 
the great one. Still they appear much higher, as 
they do not, like that, pour over in a vast arch, but 
are precipitated so perpendicularly as to appear an 
entire sheet of foam from the top to the bottom. 
Seen from the Table-Rock, the tumbling green waters 
of the rapids, which persuade you that an ocean is 
approaching, the brilliant color of the water, the fright- 
ful gulf, and headlong torrent at your feet, the white 
column rising from its centre, and often reaching to 
the clouds, the black wall of rock frowning from the 
opposite island, and the long curtain of foam descend- 
ing from the other shore, interrupted only by one 
dark shaft, form altogether one of the most beautiful, 
as well as awful scenes in nature. The effect of all 
these objects is much heightened by being seen from 
a dizzy and fearful pinnacle, upon which you seem 
suspended over a fathomless abyss of vapor, whence 
ascends the deafening uproar of the greatest cataract 
in the world, and by reflecting that this powerful 
torrent has been rushing down, and this grand scene 
of stormy magnificence been in the same dreadful 
tumult for ages, and will continue so for ages to 
come." 

The view from the foot of the Table-Rock is, if 
possible, still more impressive. Standing on a level 
with the margin of the river, and gazing upward, you 
obtain a more overwhelmning idea of the majesty of 
the flood, which seems to be falling from the heavens. 



PASSAGE TO TERMINATION-ROCK. 15 

You better realize the height of the precipice, and 
the tremendous force of the torrent. Skirting the 
base of the Table-Rock, you arrive at the point of 
entrance, behind the vast sheet of water, which those 
who desire to traverse, provide themselves with fitting 
apparel, which is here kept for that purpose. This 
magnificent cavern is often tenanted by rushing winds, 
which drive the spray with blinding fury in the face of 
the approaching pilgrim. Clad in rude garments, and 
cap of oil-cloth, with coarse shoes, — the most unpic- 
turesque of all figures, — he approaches, striking his 
staff among the loose fragments that obstruct his way. 
The path is slippery and perilous, the round, wet 
stones betray his footing, and sometimes cold, slimy 
and wriggling eels coil around his ancles. Respira- 
tion is at first difficult, almost to suffocation. But the 
aiding hand and encouraging voice of the guide are 
put in requisition, and almost ere he is aware, he 
reaches Termination-Rock, beyond which all progress 
is hazardous. This exploit entitles him to a certifi- 
cate, obtained at the house where his garb was provi- 
ded, and signed by the guide. But should he fail of 
attaining this honor, by a too precipitate retreat from 
this cavern of thunders, he is still sure of a magnifi- 
cent shower-bath. 

From the Pavilion Hotel, which occupies the site of 
another of that name, destroyed by fire a few years 
since, is a striking prospect of the Horse-shoe Fall, 
and of the river above it. The deep flood rolls on in 



16 CLIFTON HOUSE AND DRUMMONDSVILLE. 



majesty, yet reluctantly, like a monarch to his over- 
throw. You almost believe that it is a creature of 
intelligence, striving to avoid some impending calami- 
ty. It seems to turn aside, and to gather itself up as 
if to escape the plunge. Like our own frail race, it 
would fain draw back from the adversity in which is 
its glory. But enforced to the dreaded leap, it makes 
the plunge with an appalling majesty, amid the quak- 
ing earth and thundering skies. 

The carriage-road from the Ferry to the Clifton 
House was cut through a precipitous rock, with great 
labor and expense. It is perfectly safe, but those who 
choose rather to trust to their feet, will be rewarded, 
especially on the descending path, with such wild and 
bold scenery, as might content them to forego the 
sight of the mountain-passes of Switzerland. From 
the piazza and windows of the Clifton House are 
commanding views of both the Falls. That on the 
American side is here surpassingly beautiful. 

Conveniences are here furnished for pleasant drives 
on the fine roads in her Majesty's dominions. Most 
travellers are induced to go to Drummondsville, and 
visit the spot where the sanguinary battle of Lundy's 
Lane was fought on July 25th, 1814. A soldier, who 
was in that engagement, if he does not exactly, like 
Goldsmith's veteran. 



" Shoulder his crutch and tell how fields were won. 



» J 



is still prompt and happy to point out every locality 



BURNING-SPRING. 17 



where the hosts were arrayed, where the conflict raged 
most furiously, and where the earth drank the deepest 
draughts of the blood of her sons. He also guides to 
the burial-ground, where officers and soldiers rest 
peacefully in death's embrace, and recites with pecul- 
iar emphasis, a poetical epitaph on the fallen brave. 

On the bank of the river a burning-spring is shown, 
which emits a stream of sulphurated hydrogen gas, 
which being confined and ignited by the touch of a 
candle, sends forth, through a tube, a brilliant volume 
of flame. This might doubtless be rendered useful for 
lighting houses, were there any in its neighborhood. 
But its position is isolated, and the slight tenement 
thrown over it was filled with a close, unpleasant at- 
mosphere, which one would think must be insalubrious 
to the man who exhibited it to strangers. A draught 
from the spring, which was presented us, was cold, 
and strongly sulphureous. 

Between the Clifton-House and the Pavilion is a 
Museum, whose contents display taste and persever- 
ance ; a Camera-Obscura, which gives a miniature 
and prismatic view of the Falls, and also the nucleus 
of a menagerie. One of its principal curiosities were 
a pair of immense white Owls, who fixed their large, 
round eyes upon the company with imperturbable 
gravity, as if determined, by an extra show of wisdom, 
to prove their claim to the patronage of Minerva. 
Their captivity seemed neither so irksome, nor so 
contradictory to nature, as that of a Bald Eagle on 



18 CHAINED EAGLE. 



the American side, who wears his chain with such a 
sad, abject demeanor, as to pain the beholder. Me- 
thinks the king of birds should be left free to soar at 
will, in the dominion of the monarch of cataracts. 
Some of the most majestic Eagles have been found in 
this region. Numbers of smaller birds are often seen 
sporting on the verge of the mighty cataract, and dip- 
ping their wings in its tinted mist, with a strange enthu- 
siasm of delight. Do they exult in the terrific shower- 
bath, which man may not approach ? or listen with 
transport to that glorious thunder-hymn, which makes 
their loudest warblings like the breath of the epheme- 
ron ? 

There are a variety of objects and collections of cu- 
riosities on both the Canadian and American side, 
soliciting the attention of travellers, which, though 
they must dwindle into insignificance in the presence 
of the everlasting torrent, furnish agreeable resources 
for intervals of weariness. For the senses are some- 
times wearied, the eye aches with splendor, and the 
foot shrinks from climbing; but the mind is never 
satiated. There is a perpetual change of beauty and 
of glory, an excitement that never subsides, — a fasci- 
nation that grows deeper and more pervading every 
day that you remain. 

No one, unless impelled by necessity, should make 
a short stay at Niagara. A week scarcely suffices for 
its more prominent features. It should be seen not 
only at morn, at noon-day, and the sun-setting, but in 



REPEATED VISITS. 19 

darkness, and beneath the exquisite tinting of the 
lunar-bow. It is desirable so to arrancre the excursion, 
as to meet there, the summer-moon at its full. Those 
who have journeyed there in winter, pronounce the 
scenery to be gorgeous beyond all powers of the 
imagination. 

The lover of Nature's magnificence will scarcely 
be satisfied without repeated visits to Niagara. The 
mind is slow in receiving the idea of great magnitude. 
It requires time and repetition to expand and deepen 
the perceptions that overwhelm it. This educating 
process is peculiarly necessary among scenery, where 
the mind is continually thrown back upon its Author, 
and the finite, trying to take hold of the Infinite, 
falters and hides itself in its own nothingness. 

It is impossible for Niagara to disappoint, unless 
through the infirmity of the conception that fails to 
grasp it. Its resources are inexhaustible. It can 
never expend itself, because it points always to God. 
More unapproachable than the fathomless ocean, man 
cannot launch a bark upon its bosom, or bespeak its 
service in any form. He may not even lay his hand 
upon it, and live. Upon its borders he can dream, if 
he will, of gold-gathering, and of mill-privileges; but 
its perpetual warning is, " Hence, ye profane ! " 

Let none, who have it in their power to change 
their places at will, omit a pilgrimage to Niagara. The 
facilities of travelling render it now a very different 
exploit from what it was in the days of our fathers. 



20 INFLUENCES OF NIAGARA. 

who were forced to cut away with their axes the 
branches intercepting the passage of the rocky roads. 
Those whose hearts respond to whatever is beautiful 
and sublime in creation, should pay their homage to 
this mighty cataract. No other scenery so powerfully 
combines these elements. 

Let the gay go thither to be made thoughtful, and 
the religious to become more spiritually-minded. Yet 
let not the determined trifler linger here to pursue his 
revels. Frivolity seems an insult to the majesty that 
presides here. Folly and dissipation are surely out of 
place. The thunder-hymn of the mighty flood re- 
proves them. Day and night it seems to repeat and 
enforce the words of inspiration : "The Lord is in his 
holy temple : let all the earth keep silence before 
Him." 



FIRST CHURCH AT JAMESTOWN. 21 



FIRST CHURCH AT JAMESTOW, VIRGINIA. 



Roll on, proud River, toward the waiting main, ^ 
And glow, gay shores, in summer's fostering smile; 

Your blended beauties strive to lure in vain 
The traveller's eye from yon deserted pile. 

For there, in solitary state it stands, 

While drooping foliage robes its mouldering frame, 
The earliest temple reared by Christian hands 

To teach a pagan realm Jehovah's^ name. 

Hail, ancient fane ! where first vvas heard to flow 
That hallowed praise which heavenly choirs repeat, 

While the stern savage staid his lifted bow, 
From echo's voice to learn the cadence sweet. 

Here, her frail babe, the matron-exile brought, 
Here, the glad lover led his trusting bride, 

And in thy solemn ritual forgot 

The far cathedral, once their childhood's pride. 



22 FIRST CHURCH AT JAMESTOWN. 

Were language thine, what scenes couldst thou de- 
scribe, 

When the New World came forth to meet the Old, 
The simple welcome of the red-browed tribe. 

The high-born Saxon, dignified and cold ; 

The plumed chieftain, at his council-fire, 

The dauntless hunter on the wind-swept hill, 

The watchful soldier, and the patriot-sire, 
Guarding the infant colony from ill. 

The grim gold-searcher, full of venal dreams. 
With microscopic eye and restless soul, 

Hoarding the yellow earth that lined the streams, 
Till meaorre famine on his reverie stole. 

Perchance, Powhatan here, in regal pride, 

His warriors marshalled and his banners waved, 

Or Pocahontas, moved with pity, sighed, 
O'er the pale victim, by her firmness saved. 

Now, all are swept away. From care and toil, 
Virginia's sires have sought their mouldering bed. 

And the untutored owners of the soil. 
Like their own arrow mid the forest, fled. 

But thou. Old Church, by hoary Time revered, 
And spared by tempests in their ruthless rage, 

To hoar antiquity a friend endeared, 
Art still the beacon of a buried ao-e. 



And when the pomp and pageantry of earth, 
Shall fleet and shrivel in the day of ire, 

The meek devotion that in thee had birth, 
Shall soar unchanging, never to expire. 



The voyager upon the noble and beautiful James 
River, perceives, about fifty miles from its mouth, the 
ruins of an ancient edifice. It stands upon a slight 
elevation, and were it mantled and festooned with lux- 
uriant ivy, like the decaying structures of the Mother 
Land, would present a picturesque appearance. Still, 
as the first Christian temple ever reared in this new- 
found world, its associations are vivid and sacred. 
While we gaze upon it, the mists of more than two 
centuries fleet away, and the past stands before us. 

Lofty forests ascend, and tangled thickets usurp the 
place of the velvet meads. The snowy sails of a 
stranger bark glitter in the morning sun. The first 
Christian vessel that ever explored these waters, ap- 
proaches the shore, and, in the words of an old histo- 
rian, is " moored to the trees, in six fathom water, in 
the great river of Pouhatan, on the 13th day of May, 
1607." Then the Saxon race, whose birth-right is to 
rule, laid the foundation of their first permanent do- 
minion, in the clime which Columbus, one hundred 
and fifteen years before, had discovered. Smith, who 
has been justly called the " soul of the infant colony," 
changed the name of the broad river to '' James," in 



24 SETTLEMENT AT JAMESTOWN. 



honor of his sovereign, and guiding the exploring 
party through the trackless wilds, suddenly presented 
himself before Powhatan, the great monarch of the 
country, while encompassed by his warriors and savage 
court. He describes his rude palace as "pleasantly 
situated on a hill, having before it three fertile isles, 
around it many corn-fields, and strong by nature." 
What a stransre interview, when the red-browed rulers 
of the land, first gazed upon faces, costumes, and 
weapons so new and strange, and heard the tones of 
an unknown language, which was to have the mastery 
in these realms, when their own barbarous articula- 
tions should be a forgotten sound. 

In the settlement at Jamestown, lowly roof-trees rise 
like the mushroom. A rude palisade surrounds them. 
In the midst, is this temple to Jehovah, over whose 
ruins, as we linger, the pictured records of its early 
ritual unfold themselves. We see the masses of fresh, 
wild flowers with which it was daily decked, and hear 
the filial petition for a blessing on " England, the 
sweet mother-country," which mingled with the morn- 
ing and evening prayer. We see the pulpit, with its 
hour-glass, on the sacred day reminding the man of 
God of the fitting limits of his discourse, and that the 
patience of his auditors could scarcely be expected to 
outrun the measure of its sands. We see the chair of 
state for the Governor, with its cushion of green vel- 
vet, and the board " on which he kneeleth, covered 
with a great cloath." Gathered as a congregation, we 



DIVINE WORSHIP. 25 



see the thoughtful statesman, the high-born cavalier, 
the hardy soldier, the restless adventurer, the care-worn 
matron, and the blooming maiden. Change and hard- 
ship mark traces upon all, and on more than one 
brow sits the frown of disappointment. But in the 
worship of a high and holy Being the soul uplifts it- 
self, and is strengthened. The disunited feel the in- 
fluence of the Gospel of Peace, and the meek-hearted 
gather solace from the hopes of another life. The 
hallowed chant breaks forth, and earth's sorrows are 
forgotten, while the startled Indian stays his bended 
bow, and listens through the parted foliage to a strain 
so passing sweet, which first taught these unshorn for- 
ests the praise of God. 

Four years slowly notch their chronicles, and pass 
away. A throng hasten toward the consecrated house. 
The captain of the watch " shuts the ports, and places 
centinels, the bell having tolled the last time, and all 
the houses of the town been searched, to command 
every one, of what quality soever, the sick and hurt 
excepted, to repair to church." What occasions this 
unwonted zeal of purpose, and celerity of movement? 
An event is to take place for which the prayers of 
faithful hearts have long ascended to the Father of 
Mercies. The first Christian convert from the heathen 
tribes is to receive the baptismal vow. And that 
convert is the young daughter of their king. The 
first Iamb led by the hand of young Virginia to the 
fold of the Great Shepherd, approaches timidly, and 



26 FIRST CONVERT. 



with tears, the simple font hewn from the oak of her 
native forests. Near her is her favorite and noble- 
hearted brother, while an elder sister, clasping her 
infant son to her bosom, regards with intense curiosi- 
ty a deed, to their comprehension so wrapped in 
mystery. Plumed chieftains of her nation, and nobles 
of her own kindred blood, stand like bronze statues, 
with their eyes fixed upon the princess. She kneels, 
confesses her faith in the Redeemer, and receives 
upon her brow that seal, which her future life never 
dishonored. High honor was it to thee, Old Church ! 
thus to have garnered the first fruits of the wilderness, 
— to have laid upon heaven's altar the first consecra- 
ted rose from these western forests. 

This era in the history of our country has been il- 
lustrated, by the spirited pencil of Chapman, and 
placed, by order of Congress, with other national 
pictures, in the Rotunda of the Capitol at Washing- 
ton. 

Yet one more scene in the ancient church of James- 
town. Around the rough pine columns, are wreaths 
and knots of the earliest spring flowers; for April has 
fully justified her appellation of the " bud-opener." 
She has also decked the earth in the brightest verdure, 
and filled the air with the music of countless birds. 
The pulpit, covered with its rich, embroidered cloth, 
displays the arms of young Virginia quartered with 
the initials of Britain's king. 

Sir Thomas Dale, the wise and stately Governor, is 



there, in his court-costume, with pages and standard- 
bearer. Other attendants in livery, halberdiers with 
their armor, and stately officers, the chivalry of Eng- 
land, are in his train. Colonists of all ranks, — the 
tillers of the soil, the mechanic, the adventurer, are 
there. Mothers and daughters, youths and children, 
in their best attire, swell the throng. On every brow 
is a cheering expectation. 

Ranged on the opposite side of the area, rise the 
tall and plumed chieftains of the forest, gathering 
around their king, the majestic Powhatan. His fiery, 
eagle-eye is at rest, and expresses complacence. Near- 
est him, is his son, the prince Nantiquas, styled by a 
historian of that day, '* the most manliest, comeliest, 
boldest spirit ever seen in a salvage." Here and there, 
the red-browed females, their raven locks decorated 
with feathers, are mingled amid groups of painted 
warriors. 

In the chancel, where a profusion of the richest 
blossoms breathe fragrance, stood the clergyman in 
his robes, the Rev. Mr. Hunt, so often designated as 
the " morning-star of the church." His features and 
demeanor evince the meekness which had so often 
breathed peace upon the dissensions of the colonists, 
and bound them together as brethren, in Jesus' name. 

A bridal group approach the altar. The forest- 
maiden, on whose forehead he had shed the drops of 
baptismal dedication, bends timidly before him. At 
her side, is a hiah-born cavalier of Eno-land. Mutual 



28 BRIDAL. 



love moves them thus to seek the indissoluble vow. 
The brother of the king, — her haughty and warlike 
uncle, — with head towering above all the people, — 
comes forward at the appointed moment, and gives her 
hand to her destined husband. 

Breathless interest pervades the whole assembly. 
Powhatan, the proud king of thirty nations, is satis- 
fied. Still his lip trembles, when the darling of his 
heart transfers her fealty to another. The colonists 
regard the gentle bride as the hostage of peace, and 
rejoice in an event which will reprieve them from the 
perils of savage warfare. 

The hallowed rite proceeds. The mystic ring is 
pressed upon the slender finger of the forest-princess. 
The Old World weds the New. The benediction is 
swelled by the tearful ardor of many hearts. For the 
white strangers could not but remember, that in all their 
sorrows she had been an unchangeable friend. They 
could not but remember, that amid her sportive child- 
hood, her firmness had saved their endangered cham- 
pion from the death-stroke; that when they fainted 
with famine, she brought them corn with her own 
hands ; that she dared, at the deepest midnight, the 
trackless wild, to warn them of a conspiracy which 
must have wrought their extermination. They re- 
membered that she was now their sister in the faith, 
and that in invoking the smile of heaven upon her, 
they were blessing the tutelary angel of the colony. 

Sir Thomas Dale, in his dispatches to the English 



. 



LETTER OF THE GOVERNOR. 29 

government, dated June 18th, 1614, thus notices these 
transactions, with his characteristic zeal and piety. 
'' The daughter of Powhatan I caused to be carefully 
instructed in the Christian religion, who, after she had 
made good progress therein, publicly renounced the 
idolatry of her country, openly confessed the true 
faith, and was, at her desire, baptized. She is since 
married to an English gentleman of good understand- 
ing ; another knot to bind our peace the stronger. 
The king, her father, gave approbation to it, and her 
uncle gave her, in the church, to her husband. She 
lives civilly and lovingly with him, and will, I trust, 
increase in goodness as the knowledge of God in- 
creaseth in her. She will go unto England with me, 
and were it but for the gaining of this one soul, I 
would think my time, toil, and present stay, well 
spent," 

Two years afterwards, Pocahontas, or the Lady 
Rebecca, — by which name she was called after her 
baptism, — accompanied Mr. Rolfe to his native land, 
taking with them their infant son. They sailed in the 
same ship with the Governor, and arrived at Plymouth 
in June, 1616. 

Marked attentions were paid the forest-princess, not 
only by her husband's relatives, but by Anna, the 
queen of James the First, and several of the nobility. 
Her profusion of black, glossy hair, and her manners, 
simple, yet dignified and self-possessed, were admired 
at court ; while her gentleness and piety won her 



30 DEATH OF POCAHONTAS. 

many true friends. Purchas, in his Pilgrim, remarks, 
"Not only did she accustom herself to civility, but 
still carried herself as the daucrhter of a kino; ; and 
was accordingly respected, both by the company in 
which I met her, and by divers persons of high estate 
and honor, trusting, in their hopeful zeal, through her 
to advance Christianity. I was present, when the 
Bishop of London entertained her with festival, state 
and pomp, beyond what, in his great hospitality, he 
afforded to other ladies. About to return to Virginia, 
she came, at Gravesend, to her end and grave, having 
given great demonstration of her Christian sincerity, 
as the first fruits of Virginian conversion, leaving 
among us a godly memory and hope of a blessed res- 
urrection, her soul aspiring to see and enjoy in heaven, 
what here she had heard and believed, of her beloved 
Saviour." 

Mouldering walls ! so fruitful in legendary lore, so 
entapestried with pictures of the past, ye deserve the 
thanks of the traveller, and the kind care of those 
who dwell around. For the sake of the images you 
restore to us, and the sacred rites you have witnessed, 
you should be protected from the further disruption of 
the seasons, and clothed with a robe of the richest 
mantling vine-leaves. 

It has been well said, that " a fine landscape with- 
out associations, is like a fair woman without a heart. 
It is in vain that we see regular features, or a brilliant 
complexion, unless the soul, looking through the eyes, 



ASSOCIATIONS. 31 



give the essence of beauty. This constitutes the 
charm of travelling in a classic clime. The moun- 
tains may not be richer, or the mountains more lofty, 
but every dell and stream are consecrated. There- 
fore, a new country must be inferior to the old. Its 
loftiest associations lead but to the labors of the colo- 
nist, or his wars upon the wild beasts that were there 
before him." 

Our own country furnishes an exception to the 
closing remarks of this accomplished writer. Though 
of comparatively recent date, many of its associations 
are as lofty and spirit-stirring as those which strike 
more deeply into the dimness of antiquity. Those of 
the venerable structure which we contemplate, are 
mingled with the chivalry of the Old World, and the 
royalty of the New, — with rites that staid the effusion 
of blood, and linked contending races in amity — that 
gathered the first soul from the bondage of idols to the 
worship of the true God, and girded it to run faithfully 
the way of eternal life. 

Old Church ! — first herald of salvation to the west- 
ern wild, — thou hast fallen by the way, but thy ruins 
are precious in our eyes. Blessed is the young land 
whose cradle-memories are like thine. 



FALLS OF THE YANTIC, 

AT NORWICH, CONNECTICUT. 

Hills, rocks and waters ! here ye lie, 
And o'er ye spreads the same blue sky, 

As when in early days, 
My childish feet your cliffs essayed, 
My wondering eye your depths surveyed. 

Where the vexed torrent stays. 

O'er bolder scenes mine age hath strayed, 
By floods that make your light cascade 

Seem as an infant's play, 
Yet dearer is it still to me. 
Than all their boasted pageantry 

That charms the traveller's way. 

For here, enchanted, side by side, 
With me, would many a play-mate glide 

When school-day's task was o'er. 
Who deemed this world, from zone to zone, 
Had nought of power or wonder known 

Like this resounding shore. 



FALLS OF THE YANTIC. 33 

Light-hearted group ! I see ye still, 
For Memory's pencil, at her will, 

Doth tint ye bright, and rare, 
Red lips, from whence glad laughter rang, 
Elastic limbs that tireless sprang, 

And curls of sunny hair. 

I will not ask, if change or care 
Have coldly marred those features fair. 

For by myself, I know, 
We cannot till life's evening keep 
The flowers that on its dewy steep, 

At earliest dawn did blow. 



Yet lingering round this hallowed spot, 
I call them, though they answer not, ' 

For some have gone their way. 
To sleep that sleep which none may break. 
Until the resurre(^tion wake 

The prisoners from their clay. 

But thou, most fair and fitful stream. 
First prompter of my musing dream, 

Still lovingly dost smile. 
And heedless of the conflict hoarse 
With the rude rocks that bar thy course, 

My lonely walk beguile. 
3 



34 NORWICH. 



Still thou art changed, my favorite scene ! 
For man hath stolen thy cliffs between, 

And torn thy grassy sod, 
And bade the intrusive mill-wheel dash, 
And many a ponderous engine crash, 

Where Nature dreamed of God. 

Yet to the spot, where first we drew 
Our breath, we turn unchanged and true, 

As to a nurse's breast ; 
And count it, even till hoary age 
The Mecca of our pilgrimage. 

Of all the earth most blest. 

And so, thou Cataract, strangely wild, 
My own loved Yantic's wayward child. 

That still dost foam and start ; 
Though slight thou art, I love thee well, 
And pleased the lay thy praise doth tell, 

Which gushes from the heart. 



Norwich, the semi-capital of the County of New 
London, is one of the most picturesque towns in New 
England. It has been said by travellers to exhibit 
strong features of resemblance to the scenery of Scot- 
land. It is situated between three rivers, the Yantic, 
Shetucket, and Quinneboug, all of them wild and 
rapid, having their sources in a mountainous country. 



YANTIC RIVER. 



35 



and uniting to form the Thames. The Yantic derives 
its principal origin from Gardener's Lake, a fine sheet 
of water, v*^ashing the borders of Bozrah, Montville, 
and Colchester. Issuing from this lake, and enlarged 
by a tributary stream from Lebanon, it pursues a 
winding course to the south-east, affording valuable 
facilities for mills and manufactories, till it arrives 
within a mile of its junction with the Shetucket. 
Then suddenly arrested by a disordered mass of prim- 
itive rocks, it is precipitated over a parapet ten or 
twelve feet high upon another bed of rocks below. 
There the channel is contracted to a narrow space, 
and rendered tortuous and dark, by two frowning cliffs, 
upon either side, one of which, like a perpendicular 
wall, towers to the height of a hundred feet. Through 
this chasm, rushes the broken stream. The beetling 
cliffs, the compressed channel, the confused mass of 
granite, and the roaring, foaming river, as it struggles 
through its difficulties into the broad placid basin 
below, are all striking features of this scene. The 
surrounding landscape also, is diversified and impres- 
sive. It is overlooked on all sides by high hills, and 
heavy woods. The river has plunged into a dell 
between high banks, which, as it pursues its way, 
gradually subside into green and cultivated slopes, 
upon whose breast many a graceful mansion arises 
to give a cheerful interest to the region. At the 
distance of a mile, you see the bridge which spans its 
mouth, and groups of buildings, forming a part of the 
contiguous city. 



36 MANUFACTURING VILLAGE. 

In the immediate vicinity of the Falls, several large 
manufacturing establishments, and a thriving village 
have sprung up. Much of the water has been diverted 
from the main stream for their utilitarian purposes. 
This greatly detracts from the beauty of the place, 
which in its original state was strikingly bold and 
romantic. The good taste of the proprietors has 
endeavored to prevent any material change in the 
natural features of the scenery, and it is still a beautiful 
and interesting spot. At the time of the spring floods, 
the waters fill the whole channel, and for a few days 
pour through the chasm with great clamor and velocity. 
And during the dry weather of summer, when the 
channel is laid bare to view, a new gratification is 
afforded to the curious visitor, in the various fantastic 
figures and forms, into which the rocks have been 
wrought by the attrition of the eddying waters. How 
long they must have kept up this ceaseless flow, to 
have wrought the rough granite into such smooth and 
circular excavations from the depth of a finger, to the 
capacity of a cauldron, it is impossible to say. Those 
who prefer the wildness of nature to her more luxuriant 
scenes of cultivation, would be gratified with the 
pictures of Yantic Falls, painted many years since, by 
the venerable artist. Col. Trumbull, and now in the 
possession of G. J. W. Trumbull, Esq. of Norwich. 

Tradition has added another point of interest to this 
spot, by associating it with the history of Indian 
warfare. In one of the sanguinary conflicts which 



INDIAN AVARS. 37 



frequently took place between the Narragansetts and 
Mohegans, the former, having been routed by their 
enemies, in a battle upon the plains three or four miles 
below, were driven through the woods with great fury, 
towards the spot where Norwich now stands. A band 
of them, still fiercely pursued, reached the verge of the 
dizzy cliff that overlooks the Falls, and to escape the 
barbarity of their foes, plunged into the foaming tor- 
rent, and were dashed in pieces upon the rocks. 

But the principal part of the Narragansett warriors, 
gaining the fording place, were driven by their enemies 
over hills, vales, and morasses, to a spot called " Sa- 
chem's Plain." There a furious contest ensued, which 
ended in the overthrow, and death of Miantonimoh. 
Uncas, the kingly victor, and the constant friend of 
white men, reposes near the Falls of the Yantic. A 
small granite monument has been recently erected 
over his grave. This burial-ground, in which none 
but those of the royal blood of Mohegan were allowed 
interment, was formerly one of the favorite walks of 
the children in the vicinity. Seated there, as we 
returned from school at the close of a summer-day, 
loaded with our books, and sometimes with the baskets 
which had contained our noon-repast, we read the 
simple inscriptions on the rude grave-stones, and 
listened to the moan of the cataract, as it stole, soften- 
ed by distance, to that solitary and not uncongenial 
recess. 

One of these epitaphs used especially to attract our 



38 ROYAL BURYING-GROUND. 

attention. It was composed at the request of the 
Indians, by Dr. Tracy, a highly respected physician, 
whose philanthropy was often called into exercise, for 
the red-browed race. 

" Here lies Samuel TJneas, the second and beloved son of 
his father, John Uncas, who was the grandson of Uncas, 
Grand Sachem. He died July 3 1st, 1741, in the 28th year of 
his age. 

For beauty, wit, and sterling sense, 

For temper mild, and eloquence, 

For courage bold, and things ivaureegan, 

He was the glory of Mohegan, 

Whose death hath caused great lamentation, 

Both to the English and the Indian nation." 

The term '' waureegan," in the language of our 
Indian neighbors, signifies ''good things," or praise- 
worthy conduct. Some writers have translated it as 
" good tidings," or costly apparel ; but this is not 
conformable to the usage of the Mohegans. Over 
another mossy stone, the little critics sometimes paused, 
thinking that the close of its inscription possessed 
wonderful force and simplicity. 

" In memory of young Seasar Jonus, who died April 30th, 
1749, in the 28th year of his age. And he was cousin to 
Uncas." 

The latest interment in this royal cemetery, was 
that of Mazeen, about twenty years since, the last 
man in whose veins flowed the royal blood of Mo- 
hegan. He was in the 2Sth year of his age, and 



WALKS OF CHILDHOOD. 39 

deeply mourned by his people. That tribe, in all 
conveyances of land to the white people, strenuously 
reserved this sacred sepulchral ground. 

Whether it is still a favorite resort with the young, 
I know not. But to enumerate the spots in the neigh- 
borhood of Norwich, where the lover of nature might 
delight to ruminate, would be difficult. Equally so 
would it be, to do justice to the social virtues that 
predominate there, and to the hospitality and cordial 
feeling which naturalize the stranger, and unlock the 
springs of sympathy. Memory lingers around every 
nook and dell, of " mine own romantic town," re- 
peopling it with the loved and lost. Scarce a rocky 
ravine, but hath its legend of some musing hour, or of 
some cherished friend, in whose company it was 
visited. 

Yet how vain to attempt a description of the haunts 
which in childhood we frequented. Those which we 
were in the habit of visiting, after the confinement of 
a long day in school, are clothed with an illusive 
beauty, which neither time, nor truth, can perfectly 
dispel. Hence this variable, and diminutive cataract 
of my native place, was ever in the days of childish 
simplicity, as the Fall of Terni : — 

" The roar of waters, — from the head-long height 
Cleaving the wave-worn precipice." 

One of the peculiar features of the scene in those 
days, was its entire seclusion. Tall and beautiful 



40 NATIVE PLACE. 



trees, mingled among precipitous rocks, were covered 
from their roots, high above the intersection of their 
branches, with carved names, lover's knots, and various 
devices. But they have fallen, those overshadowing 
trees, which were to us, as the oak of Delphos. 
Utilitarian zeal touched them, and they perished. 
The same magic and ministry, have converted the 
dreaming-place of the lone enthusiast into a busy 
manufacturing village, with its fitting appendages. 

Still it is not as historians, as geographers or geolo- 
gists, that we return to the clime of our nativity. We 
bring no plummet to sound its streams, no instrument 
for the admeasurement of its mountains. We saw, and 
formed our opinion of them, when opening life was a 
romance, when judgment had not known the discipline 
of contrast, or comparison, and when there was no 
experience. Then, every brooklet was to us as the 
Rhine, every violet-bank a Lausanne, every wooded 
hillock an Appenine. 

Even after the lapse of many years, when we estimate 
other landscapes accurately, we continue to judge of 
these, by their associations. We revisit them, and 
thoucrh we are ourselves chancred, though the voices 
that used to welcome us, are silent forever, yet the 
cliff, and the rivulet are still there, to soothe us with a 
perpetual friendship. We inhale from them the same 
fresh spirit that breathed there when life was new, 
and uplifted by its influence, exultingly confute the 
position of the philosopher, that " there is ever some 
dead fly in our box, marring the precious ointment." 



MONTAUK POINT. 41 



MONTAUK POINT. 

It was a summer's day, when old Montauk 
First gleamed upon us. Many a mile we drove 
Over a treeless region, hill and dale 
Wrapped in a short, green sward. 

There, grazed at will, 
Herds of young cattle, by no fence restrained, 
And limitless in their equality, 
As a Laconian brotherhood, duite lean 
They were, and agile, and with goat-like nerve 
Could scour o'er paths precipitous — yet each 
Bent on our vehicles a curious eye, 
Pausing and pondering, as if much inclined 
Our destination and our names to learn. 
'T was strange in such wild solitudes to be 
So questioned by those quadrupeds. Perchance, 
Some Yankee pedigree they might have held. 
In old time far away ; for all, methought, 
Thirsted to ask our birth-place, and degree. 
Date, history, kindred, gains, and hopes, and fears. 
And prospects and pursuits. 

Right scanty fare 



42 MONTAUK. 



Had doubtless kept their minds more clear, and lent 

A rarer sprinkling of intelligence 

Than our sleek herds, who plunge in clover deep, 

Ever attain. Yet still, 't was passing strange 

Such intellectual intercourse to hold 

With horned creatures, and behold them there 

Amenable to none. For house, or home. 

Or farm-yard, where some tinkling bell might call 

Those roaming vassals to their rightful lord, 

Though searching close, we saw not. 

No frail hut. 
Or slight canoe of the poor red-browed tribes. 
So numerous once, on their own soil remained. 
The white man's flocks and herds outnumbered them. 
And took their lands. 

Still, as we passed along. 
On our right hand the glorious Ocean rolled, 
With its long-terraced, thunder-uttering waves, 
While on our left, spread out that sheltered sea 
Which laves the green shores of my native State, 
Approaching gently, with its whispered tides. 
Subdued and docile, as a child at school. 
The contrast pleased us well, as on we prest 
To the sharp verge of that promontory 
Where Sea and Ocean meet. And there, we climbed 
To the hill-planted light-house, and beheld 
The confluence of waters. Studdedo'er 
The near expanse, the fishing vessels lay, 
Each fixed and still, as 'mid a sea of glass; 



MONTAUK. 43 



While on the far horizon, many a sail 
Loomed up conspicuous, as the western sun 
Involved himself in clouds. 

One house there was, 
Where the light-keeper and his family 
Dwelt, sole inhabitants, but yet not sad 
In that lone place. Young children brought thera love, 
That other name for happiness, and they 
Who dwell in love, do taste on earth, of heaven. 
Beneath that peaceful, lowly roof, we found 
Order and neatness, and such table spread 
As might the wearied traveller well content; 
Though all night long, the melancholy main 
Held conflict with the rocks. 

Returning morn 
Saw us explorers of the sterile coast. 
Shell-gatherers and wave-watchers, oft-times lost 
In that long trance of meditation sweet, 
Which on the borders of the solemn deep 
Best visiteth the soul. 

« 

And then we turned. 
Our way retracing, to that southern point 
Where our brief summer-residence we held. 
Amid such draughts of ocean's bracing air, 
And soothing habitudes of rural life. 
So primitive, so simple, so serene. 
That languid nerve, and wasted, drooping mind 
Alike revivify. 

But first, we bade 



44 MONTAUK. 



Farewell to Old Montauk, and gave thee thanks, 
Ultima Thule of that noble Isle 
Against whose breast the everlasting surge 
Long travelling on, and ominous of wrath, 
Incessant beats. Thou lift'st a blessed torch 
Unto the vexed and storm-tossed mariner, 
Guiding him safely on his course again ; 
So teach us mid our own dark ills to guard 
The lamp of charity, and with clear eye 
Look up to Heaven. 



The peninsula of Montauk, on the eastern end of 
Long Island, is about nine miles in length, and from 
two to three in breadth, gradually narrowing until it 
ends in a bold cliff upon which the light-house is situ- 
ated. It is connected with the 'island by a neck of 
land called Nappeag Beach, which is but a waste of 
sand, thrown by the winds and waves into hillocks and 
ridges, and covered in some places with a scanty veg- 
etation. Leaving this beach and entering upon the 
upland of the peninsula, we find an uneven surface, 
moulded into various fantastic forms, the base of which 
is sand, but which is covered with a soil that yields 
excellent grass for cattle. The land is, in fact, a vast 
common, belonging to the people of East Hampton ; 
and here, during the summer, large herds and flocks 
are fed. There is perhaps no part of our country 
where the traveller will find such an extent of cleared 



SOLITARY SCENERY. 45 

land, without bounds or fences, or such herds of cat- 
tle promiscuously scattered over the hills and plains. 

There are no woods or groves upon the peninsula, 
and but very few scattered trees. As you advance, 
however, it takes more of the granite formation, and 
of the aspect of New England ; the stones become 
larger, and the rocks more angular, as if less beaten 
and washed by the ocean. There are but three or 
four families on the point, and their houses are miles 
apart, so that in the wintry season they must lead the 
lives of hermits. In summer many strangers resort 
hither, some to fish and hunt, some to breathe the 
invigorating sea-breeze, and not a few attracted by the 
solitary grandeur of the spot. Here you seem sepa- 
rated from the world, placed on a lone promontory 
jutting out into the great deep. On one side, the 
nearest land is Europe, and around you, filling all your 
senses and your whole soul, is the boundless ocean, 
with its thunder-surge breaking forever against the 
cliff on which you stand. 

The dread uniformity of this scene is, however, en- 
livened by the multitude of sails that in a fine day pass 
within view, and by the proximity of Gardiner's and 
Fisher's Islands, and the southern shore of Rhode 
Island. These lie upon the northern horizon, and re- 
lieve the eye, fatigued with wandering over a world of 
waves, and the mind, oppressed with the loneliness 
and sublimity of the place. 

This peninsula was formerly the residence of the 



46 LIGHT-UOUSE. 



% 



Montauk tribe of Indians, who were nearly connected 
with the Mohekaneews or aborigines of New Eng- 
land. They had the same language, the same cus- 
toms, the same proud and warlike spirit. Now they 
are almost extinct. A few individuals of mixed blood 
remain, who gain a livelihood by fishing, or are em- 
ployed as servants by the farmers of the vicinity. 

The light-house upon this point is a structure of the 
highest importance. Perhaps no land-mark in our 
country is more conspicuous, more valuable in a com- 
mercial point of view, or more necessary for the pre- 
servation of human life. Who can tell how many 
hearts have leaped at the sight of this beacon light ! — 
how many storm-tossed mariners it has guided home- 
ward : — 



<( 



Even as some hospitable man 

Will light his going guest into the path, 

And bid God bless him." 



Oyster-Pond Point, the peninsula north of Montauk, 
extends about five miles, and is connected with the 
main island by a strip of sand-beach. Though diver- 
sified by masses of rock, it has a fine soil, and is 
highly cultivated. It possesses also excellent accom- 
modations for visitors who desire the restorative effects 
of sea-air and food. One of the most curious objects 
that they find in this vicinity is an ancient cemetery, 
in a secluded and romantic situation. It is on an 
eminence, overshadowed by two higher elevations, and 



CEMETERY. 47 



covered to its summit with graves. The dark blue 
slate stones, are mossy and mouldering with time. 
Some of the inscriptions are nearly two hundred years 
old, and most of them illegible. Such as can be de- 
cyphered, exhibit that singular combination of religious 
sentiment with quaint humor, which is prone to excite 
a smile. Here is a specimen of one, bearing no date. 

" Here lyeth Elizabeth, 

Once Samuel Beebee's wife, 
Who once was made a living soul, 

But now 's deprived of life ; 
Yet firmly she believed, 

That at the Lord's return 
She should be made a living soul, 

In his own shape and form. 
Lived four and thirty years a wife, 

Died, aged 57, 
Hath now laid down this mortal life, 

In hopes to live in Heaven." 

Clusters of islands add beauty to the little voyage 
to Oyster-Pond Point, from the Connecticut shore. 
Among these are Plumb Island, which formerly bore 
the sacred appellation of the Isle of Patmos ; Shelter- 
Island, Great and Little Gull Island, whose founda- 
tions of solid rock scarcely resent the wasting effects 
of the waves; and Fisher's Island, containing about 
four thousand acres, which has been in possession of 
the Winthrop family ever since its purchase, in 1644, 
by John Winthrop, the first Governor of Connecticut. 



48 GREENPORT AND SAGG-HARBOR. 



Greenport, at Peconic Bay, between the promonto- 
ries of Montauk and Oyster-Pond Point, is an exceed- 
ingly beautiful village. Its bright verdure, and the 
grace of its waving acacia shades, render the drives 
in its vicinity very agreeable to the lover of fine scene- 
ry, while its appearance of thriving industry is pleasant 
to the utilitarian. 

At Sagg-Harbor, on the southern shore of the 
island, rural characteristics are merged in the features 
of a more populous and commercial settlement, and 
in the habits of an enterprising, active, and accumu- 
lating people; the whale-fishery being the substratum 
of their wealth. 

The neighboring town of East Hampton is one of 
the most desirable spots in which an invalid can seek 
restoration. The bracinor air of the ocean brincrs 
vigor to the nerves, while no prescribed etiquette, or 
aristocratic formality, impose that laborious attention 
to dress, which marks so many of our fashionable 
watering-places. The inhabitants are kind and social 
in their manners. The buildings are principally ar- 
ranged on a single street of about a mile in length, and 
present a plain and antiquated appearance. The fam- 
ily of the late lamented Colonel David Gardiner, have 
here a pleasant country-seat, and their elegant hospi- 
talities are remembered with gratitude by many stran- 
gers. 

Both here and at the beach at Southampton, a 
southern wind brings in a magnificent show of waves, 



EAST HAMPTON. 49 



which a storm heightens to the terribly sublime. In 
this vicinity, are many varied and pleasant drives. 
The excursion to Montauk, which has been before 
mentioned, is most solitary and peculiar. No track 
or furrow from a previous wheel directs your course. 
The traveller depends wholly on his guide, the driver 
of one of those large, strong-bodied Long-Island vehi- 
cles, which are adapted to that precipitous region. 
Yet notwithstanding the apparent perils of the route, 
it is sometimes chosen as an equestrian excursion, 
even by young ladies, whose fair forms, in this grace- 
ful exercise, amid those wild solitudes, have a striking 
effect, and carry the mind back to the days of chiv- 
alry. 

In speaking of East Hampton and the habitudes of 
its people, the late President Dwight said, emphati- 
cally : " A general air of equality, simplicity, and 
quiet is visible here in a degree perhaps singular. 
Sequestered in a great measure from the busy world, 
the people exhibit not the same activity and haste, 
which meet the eye in some other places. There is, 
however, no want of the social character, but it is 
regulated rather by the long continued customs of this 
single spot, than by the mutable fashions of a great 
city." Could any suffrage be needed, after such high 
authority, I would simply record my own hope, once 
more to be permitted to pass a part of some summer 
in this invigorating retreat, made pleasant by true- 
4 



50 Gardiner's island. 

hearted kindness, and sublime by the great voice of 
the glorious Ocean. 

Gardiner's Island is an appendage to East Hampton, 
from which it is distant ten miles. It was originally 
conveyed by deed, in 1639, to Lyon Gardiner, and 
has since continued, by lineal succession, in that fam- 
ily. It is connected by legendary lore, and buried 
treasures, with the tragical fortunes of William Kidd, 
the pirate, who was executed in 1701. It contains 
between three and four thousand acres of good soil, 
with a greater proportion of trees than the smaller 
islands can often boast. There always seems some- 
thing attractive in insular life, especially with a pleasant 
summer residence, on a small domain, girdled by the 
sparkling sea. It would seem as if the world of 
thought, of nature, and of books, might be more en- 
tirely at your own control, and as if the voice of the deep- 
rolling main insured you against interruptions, or that 
fear of them, which often produces the same mental 
hindrance, as their actual occurrence. Still, it would 
be desirable not to be too far divided from the main- 
land, or of very difficult access, lest the romance of 
the locality should be put to flight by positive incon- 
venience, or a cloistered seclusion. 

On the southern shore of Long Island is a bay, 
from two to five miles in width, formed by sand-beach 
and islands, and furnishinor a remarkable inland navi- 
gation of between seventy and eighty miles. Tracts 
of salt-meadow, producing a luxuriant growth of grass, 



LONG ISLAND. 51 



vary the surface of the intervening ridge ; the waters 
are prolific in every variety of the testaceous and finny 
tribes, while innumerable wild-fowl allure and repay 
the sportsman. 

Long Island has still many unexplored beauties to 
reward the attentive tourist. Stretching nearly 150 
miles in length, having on its north a sheltered Medi- 
terranean, and bared on the east and south to the 
rough smiting of the Atlantic surge, its shore, some- 
times beautified with country-seats, and towering to- 
ward the west into the grandeur of rich and populous 
cities, — then falling back upon the isolated farm- 
house, and the whistling ploughboy, anon losing itself 
in sterile Arabian sands, and frightful cavernous soli- 
tudes, it would seem as if some regions of this noble 
and beautiful Isle contrasted as strangely with each 
other, as the first rude huts of the twin-brothers on 
the Palatine Hill, differed from the city of the Caesars. 



52 MONTE-VIDEO. 



MONTE-VIDEO. 

How fair upon the mountain's brow 
To stand and mark the vales below, 
Those beauteous vales that calmly sleep, 
Secluded, peaceful, silent, deep ; 
The solemn forests' nodding crest, 
The streams with fringing verdure drest, 
The rural homes, remote from noise, 
By distance dwindled into toys ; 
Or turning from this varied scene, 
So mute, so lovely, so serene, 
Scale the steep cliff, whose ample range 
Gives to the eye a bolder change. 
The cultured fields, which rivers lave, 
Where branches bend and harvests wave. 
The village roofs, obscurely seen, 
The glittering spires that gem the green. 
The pale blue line that meets the eye 
Where mountains mingle with the sky. 
The floating mist, in volumes rolled. 
That hovers o'er their bosoms cold, 
Woods, wilds and waters, scattered free 
In Nature's tireless majesty. 



MONTE-VIDEO. 53 



Mark, by soft shades, and flowers carest, 
The mansion-house in beauty drest ; 
Above, to brave the tempest's shock. 
The lonely tower, that crowns the rock ; 
Beneath, the lake, whose waters dark 
Divide before the gliding bark, 
With snowy sail and busy oar, 
Moving with music to the shore : — 
And say, while musing o'er the place 
Where art to nature lends her grace. 
The crimes that blast the fleeting span 
Of erring, suffering, wandering man. 
Unfeeling pride, and cold disdain. 
The heart that wills another's pain. 
Pale envy's glance, the chill of fear. 
And war and discord come not here. 

How sweet, around yon silent lake. 
As friendship guides, your way to take, 
And cull the plants, whose glowing heads 
Bend meekly o'er their native beds, 
And own the Hand that paints the flower, 
That deals the sunshine and the shower. 
That bears the sparrow in its fall. 
Is kind, and good, and just to all ; 
Or see the sun, with rosy beam 
First gild the tower, the tree, the stream, 
And moving to his nightly rest. 
Press through the portal of the west, 



54 MONTE-VIDEO. 



Close wrapped within his mantle fold 
Of glowing purple dipped in gold ; 
Or else to mark the queen of night, 
Like some lone vestal, pure and bright, 
Steal slowly from her silent nook, 
And eild the scenes that he forsook. 

And then, that deep recess to find, 

Where the green boughs so close are twined ; 

For there, within that silent spot, 

As all secluded, all forgot. 

The fond enthusiast free may soar. 

The saore be buried in his lore. 

The poet muse, the idler sleep, 

The pensive mourner bend and weep, 

And fear no eye or footstep rude 

Shall break that holy solitude. 

Unless some viewless angel-guest, 

Who guards the spirits of the just. 

Might seek among the rising sighs, 

To gather incense for the skies. 

Or hover o'er that hallowed sod, 

To raise the mortal thought to God. 

O orentle scene, whose transient sight 
So wakes my spirit to delight, 
Where kindness, love, and joy unite, 
That though no words the rapture speak, 
The tear must tremble on the cheek, 



TALCOTT MOUNTAIN. 55 

The lay of gratitude be given, 

The prayer in secret speed to heaven. 

Here peace, though exiled and opprest, 
By those she came to save distrest, 
Might find repose from war's alarms, 
And gaze on nature's treasured charms; 
Beneath these mountain shades reclined, 
Breathe her sad dirge o'er lost mankind. 
Or on mild virtue's tranquil breast, 
Close her tired eye in gentle rest. 
Forget her wounds, her toil, her pain. 
And dream of Paradise again. 



About nine miles from the city of Hartford, Con- 
necticut, on the summit of Talcott Mountain, is the 
beautiful country residence of Daniel Wadsworth, Esq., 
known by the name of Monte-Video. Leaving the 
main road, you turn northward, into one constructed 
by the proprietor of this extensive domain, and which 
conducts you, by an easy ascent, bordered on the 
right by towering precipitous cliffs, and on the left 
so overshadowed by trees, that were it not for open- 
ings, occasionally cut through their branches, reveal- 
ing glances of imposing scenery, you would scarcely 
be conscious of the eminence you were attaining. 

After a ride of a mile and a half, a gate, enclosure, 
and tenant's house, all in the Gothic style, strike the 



56 LAKE AND TOWER. 

eye most agreeably, and passing them, the wild fea- 
tures of the scene are lost in high cultivation, and the 
embellishments of taste. A winding avenue, occa- 
sionally fringed with shades, among which the grace- 
ful acacia predominates, leads upward to the mansion- 
house, in the rear of which you look down six hundred 
feet into one of the most rich and glorious valleys 
upon whicii the sun ever shone. 

From the portico in front, you gaze upon a still 
more surprising object. Stretching at your feet, on 
the brow of this beautiful mountain, is a lake, more 
than a mile in circumference, deep, cold, crystalline, 
and bordered with trees. The white bathing-house 
on its margin, and the pleasure-boat on its bosom, 
with bright streamers, and graceful gliding motion, 
are pleasing points in the landscape. The utmost 
pinnacle of the mountain, which rises northward of 
the lake, is surrounded by a hexagonal tower, sixty 
feet in height, seeming to spring from the dark, grey 
rock, which in color it resembles. From its summit, 
to which access is rendered as easy as possible, and 
which commands an elevation of nearly a thousand 
feet above the level of Connecticut river, you have a 
glorious view of the surrounding country, and into 
the adjoining States of Massachusetts and New York ; 
the whole surrounded by an empurpled outline of 
mountains. The Connecticut is seen sweeping on- 
ward like a king, through its fair domain, amid the 
spires of numerous towns and villages, while, by the 



SOUTH ROCK. 57 



aid of a glass, the sails of the vessels in the port of 
Hartford, and the movements in the streets, are dis*- 
tinctly visible. 

The prospect from the South Rock, in the vicinity 
of the farm-house, though of less extent, is one of ex- 
treme beauty, and presents, as in a vivid, glowing pic- 
ture, the grouping of the objects more immediately 
beneath you, — lake, copse, villa, cultivated lawn, and 
crowning tower. 

Professor Silliman, in his eloquent description of 
this remarkable region, says: "The peculiarities of 
the beautiful and grand scenery of Monte-Video, make 
it, with its surrounding objects, quite without a paral- 
lel in America, and probably with few in the world. 

" To advert again, briefly, to a few of its leading pe- 
culiarities. It stands upon the very top of one of the 
highest of the green-stone ridges of Connecticut, at 
an elevation of more than one thousand two hundred 
feet above the sea, and of nearly seven hundred above 
the contiguous valley. The villa is almost upon the 
brow of the precipice, and a traveller in the Farming- 
ton valley sees it, a solitary edifice, and in a place ap- 
parently both comfortless and inaccessible, standing 
upon the giddy summit, ready, he would almost imag- 
ine, to be swept away by the first blast from the 
mountain. The beautiful crystal lake is on the top of 
the same lofty green-stone ridge, and within a few 
yards of the house ; it pours its superfluous waters in 
a limpid stream down the mountain's side, and affords 



58 PROFESSOR SILLIMAN's DESCRIPTION. 

in winter, the most pellucid ice that can be imagined. 
Arrived on the top of the mountain, and confining his 
attention to the scene at his feet, the traveller scarcely 
realizes that he is elevated above the common surface. 
The lake, the Gothic villa, farm-house and offices, the 
gardens, orchards, and serpentine walks, conducting 
through all the varieties of mountain shade, and to the 
most interesting points of view, indicate a beautiful 
and peaceful scene ; but, if he lift his eyes, he sees 
still above him on the north, bold precipices of naked 
rock, frowning like ancient battlements, and on one of 
the highest peaks, the tall tower, rising above the 
trees, and bidding defiance to the storms. If he as- 
cend to its top, he contemplates an extent of country 
that might constitute a kingdom — populous and beau- 
tiful, with villages, turrets, and towns ; at one time, he 
sees the massy magnificence of condensed vapor, 
which reposes in a vast extent of fog and mist, on the 
Farmington and Connecticut rivers, and defines, with 
perfect exactness, all their windings ; at another, the 
clouds roll beneath him in wild grandeur, and should 
a thunder-storm occur at evening, (an incident which 
every season presents,) he would view with delight, 
chastened by awe, the illuminated hills, and corre- 
sponding hollows, which everywhere fill the great 
vale west of Talcott Mountain, and alternately appear 
and disappear with the flashes of lightning." 

Those who have tasted the heart-felt hospitality of 
Monte-Video, when every summer it was tenanted by 



HOSPITALITY OF MONTE-VIDEO. 59 

its proprietor, his excellent lady, and their delighted 
guests, have a sense of enchantment, connected with 
this lovely spot, which no description can convey, and 
no casual visitant realize. Blessings are still breathed 
on that benevolence which though prevented by ill 
health, and declining years, from a permanent resi- 
dence in this delightful domain, is still prompted to 
keep it in perfect order for the benefit of strangers, 
and gratification of the community. 



60 HUGUENOT FORT. 



HUGUENOT PORT, 

AT OXFORD, MASSACHUSETTS. 



I STOOD upon a breezy height, and marked 

The rural landscape's charms : fields thick with corn, 

And new-mown grass that bathed the ruthless scythe 

With a forgiving fragrance, even in death 

Blessinor its enemies ; and broad-armed trees 

Fruitful, or dense with shade, and crystal streams 

That cheered their sedgy banks. 

But at my feet 
Were vestiges, that turned the thoughts away 
From all this summer-beauty. Moss-clad stones 
That formed their fortress, who in earlier days 
Sought refuge here, from their own troubled clime. 
And from the madness of a tyrant king. 
Were strewed around. 

Methinks, yon wreck stands forth 
In rugged strength once more, and firmly guards 
From the red Indian's shaft, those sons of France, 
Who for her genial flower-decked vales, and flush 
Of purple vintage, found but welcome cold 



HUGUENOT FORT. 61 



From thee, my native land ! the wintry moan 
Of wind-swept forests, and the appalling frown 
Of icy floods. Yet didst thou leave them free 
To strike the sweet harp of the secret soul, 
And this was all their wealth. For this they blest 
Thy trackless wilds, and 'neath their lowly roof 
At morn and night, or with the murmuring swell 
Of stranger waters, blent their hymn of praise. 



Green Vine ! that mantlest in thy fresh embtace 
Yon old, grey rock, I hear that thou with them 
Didst brave the ocean surge. 

Say, drank thy germ 
The dews of Languedoc ? or slow uncoiled 
An infant fibre, mid the fruitful mould 
Of smiling Roussillon ? or didst thou shrink 
From the fierce footsteps of a warlike train, 
Brother with brother fighting unto death, 
At fair Rochelle ? 

Hast thou no tale for me ? 



Methought its broad leaves shivered in the gale. 
With whispered words. 

There was a gentle form, 
A fair, young creature, who at twilight hour 
Oft brought me water, and would kindly raise 
My drooping head. Her eyes were dark and soft, 
As the gazelle's, and well I knew her sigh 



62 HUGUENOT FORT. 



Was tremulous with love. For she had left 
One in her own fair land, with whom her heart 
From childhood had been twined. 

Oft by her side, 
What time the youngling moon went up the sky, 
Chequering with silvery beam their woven bower ; 
He strove to win her to the faith he held, 
Speaking of heresy with flashing eye, 
Yet with such blandishment of tenderness, 
As more t];ian argument dissolveth doubt 
With a young pupil, in the school of love. 
Even then, sharp lightning quivered thro' the gloom 
Of persecution's cloud, and soon its storm 
Burst on the Huguenots. 

Their churches fell, 
Their pastors fed the dungeon, or the rack ; 
And mid each household-group, grim soldiers sat, 
In frowning espionage, troubling the sleep 
Of infant innocence. 

Stern war burst forth, 
And civil conflict on the soil of France 
Wrought fearful things. 

The peasant's blood was ploughed 
In, with the wheat he planted, while from cliffs 
That overhung the sea, from caves and dens 
The hunted worshippers were madly driven. 
Out 'neath the smiling sabbath skies, and slain, 
The anthem on their tongues. 

The coast was thronged 



HUGUENOT FORT. 



63 



With hapless exiles, and that dark-haired maid, 

Leading her little sister, in the steps 

Of their afflicted parents, hasting left 

The meal uneaten, and the table spread 

In their sweet cottage, to return no more. 

The lover held her to his heart, and prayed 

That from her erring people she would turn 

To the true fold of Christ, for so he deemed 

That ancient Church, for which his breast was clad 

In soldier's panoply. 

But she, with tears 
Like Niobe, a never-ceasing flood, 
Drew her soft hand from his, and dared the deep. 
And so, as years sped on, with patient brow 
She bare the burdens of the wilderness, 
His image, and an everlasting prayer 
Within her soul. 

And when she sank away. 
As fades the lily when its day is done, 
There was a deep-drawn sigh, and up-raised glance 
Of earnest supplication, that the hearts 
Severed so long, might join, where bigot zeal 
Should find no place. 

She hath a quiet bed 
Beneath yon turf, and an unwritten name 
On earth, which sister angels speak in heaven. 



Vine of Roussillon ! tell me other tales 
Of that high-hearted race, who for the sake 



64 REVOCATION OF EDICT OF NANTZ. 

Of conscience, made those western wilds their home ? 
How to their door the prowling savage stole, 
Staining their hearth-stone with the blood of babes, 
And as the Arab strikes his fragile tent 
Making the desert lonely, how they left 
Their infant Zion with a mournful heart 
To seek a safer home ? 

Fain would I sit 
Beside this ruined fort and muse of them, 
Mingling their features with my humble verse, 
Whom many of the noblest of our land 
Claim as their honored sires. 

On all who bear 
Their name, or lineage, may their mantle rest, 
That firmness for the truth, that calm content 
With simple pleasures, that unswerving trust 
In toil, adversity and death, which cast 
Such healthful leaven mid the elements 
That peopled this New World. 



When Louis Fourteenth, by the revocation of the 
Edict of Nantz, scattered the rich treasure of the 
hearts of more than half a million of subjects to for- 
eign climes, this Western World profited by his mad 
prodigality. Among the wheat with which its newly 
broken surface was sown, none was more purely sifted 
than that which France thus cast away. Industry, 
integrity, moderated desires, piety without austerity, 



SETTLEMENT AT OXFORD. 65 

and the sweetest domestic charities, were among the 
prominent characteristics of the exiled people. 

Among the various settlements made by the Hugue- 
nots, at different periods upon our shores, that at Ox- 
ford, in Massachusetts, has the priority in point of 
time. In 1686, thirty families with their clergyman, 
landed at Fort Hill, in Boston. There they found 
kind reception and entertainment, until ready to pro- 
ceed to their destined abode. This was at Oxford, in 
Worcester county, where an area of 12,000 acres was 
secured by them, from the township of eight miles 
square which had been laid out by Governor Dudley. 
The appearance of the country, though uncleared, was 
pleasant to those who counted as their chief wealth, 
" freedom to worship God." They gave the name of 
French River to a stream, which, after diffusing fer- 
tility around their new home, becomes a tributary of 
the duinabaug, in Connecticut, and finally merged in 
the Thames, passes on to Long Island Sound. 

Being surrounded by the territory of the Nipmug 
Indians, their first care was to build a fort, as a refuge 
from savage aggression. Gardens were laid out in its 
vicinity, and stocked with the seeds of vegetables and 
fruits, broup-ht from their own native soil. Mills were 
also erected, and ten or twelve years of persevering 
industry, secured many comforts to the colonists, who 
were much respected in the neighboring settlements^ 
and acquired the right of representation in the pro- 
vincial legislature. 
5 



66 INDIAN MASSACRE. 

But the tribe of Indians by whom they were encom- 
passed, had, from the beginning, met with a morose 
and intractable spirit, their proffered kindness. A sud- 
den, and wholly unexpected incursion, with the mas- 
sacre of one of the emigrants and his children, caused 
the breaking up of the little peaceful settlement, and 
the return of its inmates to Boston. Friendships 
formed there on their first arrival, and the hospitality 
that has ever distinguished that beautiful city, turned 
the hearts of the Huguenots towards it as a refuge, in 
this, their second exile. Their reception, and the 
continuance of their names among the most honored 
of its inhabitants, proved that the spot was neither ill- 
chosen, nor uncongenial. Here, their excellent pas- 
tor, Pierre Daille, died in 1715. His epitaph, and 
that of his wife, are still legible in the " Granary Bu- 
rying Ground." He was succeeded by Mr. Andrew 
Le Mercier, author of a History of Geneva. Their 
place of worship was in School Street, and known by 
the name of the French Protestant Church. 

About the year 1713, Oxford was resettled by a 
stronger body of colonists, able to command more 
military aid ; and thither, in process of time, a few of 
the Huguenot families resorted, and made their abode 
in those lovely and retired vales. 

A visit to this fair scenery many years since, was 
rendered doubly interesting, by the conversation of an 
ancient lady of Huguenot extraction. Though she had 
numbered more than fourscore winters, her memory 



MRS. butler's reminiscences. 67 

was peculiarly retentive, while her clear, black eye, 
dark complexion, and serenely expressive countenance, 
displayed some of the striking characteristics of her 
ancestral clime, mingled with that beauty of the soul 
which is confined to no nation, and which age cannot 
destroy. This was the same Mrs. Butler, formerly 
Mary Sigourney, whose reminiscences, the late Rev. 
Dr. Holmes, the learned and persevering annalist, has 
quoted in his " Memoir of the French Protestants." 

With her family and some other relatives, she had 
removed from Boston to Oxford, after the revolutionary 
war, and supposed that her brother, Mr. Andrew Sig- 
ourney, then occupied very nearly, if not the same 
precise locality, which had been purchased by their 
ancestor, nearly 150 years before. During the voyage 
to this foreign clime, her grandmother was deprived 
by death of an affectionate mother, while an infant 
only six months old. From this grandmother, who 
lived to be more than eighty, and from a sister six 
years older, who attained the unusual age of ninety- 
six, Mrs. Butler had derived many legends, which 
she treasured with fidelity, and related with simple 
eloquence. Truly, the voice of buried ages, spake 
through her venerated lips. The building of the 
fort; the naturalization of French vines and fruit- 
trees in a stranger soil ; the consecrated spot where 
their dead were buried, now without the remaining 
vestige of a stone ; the hopes of the rising settlement ; 
the massacre that dispersed it ; the hearth-stone, em- 



68 TRADITIONS. 



purpled with the blood of the beautiful babes of Jean- 
son ; the frantic wife and mother snatched from the 
scene of slaughter by her brother, and borne through 
the waters of French River, to the garrison at Wood- 
stock ; all these traces seemed as vivid in her mind, 
as if her eyes had witnessed them. The traditions 
connected with the massacre, were doubtless more 
strongly deepened in her memory, from the circum- 
stance that the champion who rescued his desolated 
sister from the merciless barbarians, was her own an- 
cestor, Mr. Andrew Sigourney, and the original settler 
of Oxford. 

Other narrations she had also preserved, of the 
troubles that preceded the flight of the exiles from 
France, and of the obstacles to be surmounted, ere 
that flight could be accomplished. The interruptions 
from the soldiery to which they were subject, after 
having been shut out from their own churches, in- 
duced them to meet for divine worship in the most 
remote places, and to use books of psalms and devo- 
tion, printed in so minute a form, that they might be 
concealed in their bosoms, or in the folds of their 
head-dresses. One of these antique volumes, is still 
in the possession of the descendants of Gabriel Ber- 
non, a most excellent and influential man, who made 
his permanent residence at Providence, though he was 
originally in the settlement at Oxford. 

Mrs. Butler mentioned the haste and discomfort in 
which the flight of their own family was made. Her 



FLIGHT FROM FRANCE. 69 

grandfather told them imperatively, that they must go, 
and without delay. The whole family gathered to- 
gether, and with such preparation as might be made 
in a few moments, took their departure from the home 
of their birth, '' leaving the pot boiling over the fire !" 
This last simple item reminds of one, with which the 
poet Southey deepens the description of the flight of a 
household, and a village, at the approach of the foe. 

" The chestnut loaf lay broken on the shelf." 

Another Huguenot, Henry Fransisco, who lived to 
the age of more than one hundred, relates a somewhat 
similar trait of his own departure from his native land. 
He was a boy of five years old, and his father led him 
by the hand from their pleasant door. It was winter, 
and the snow fell, with a bleak, cold wind. They 
descended the hill in silence. With the intuition of 
childhood, he knew there was trouble, without being 
able to comprehend the full cause. At length, fixing 
his eyes on his father, he begged in a tremulous voice, 
to be permitted ''just to go back, and get his little 
sled," his favorite, and most valued possession. 

A letter from the young wife of Gabriel Manigault, 
one of the many refugees who settled in the Carolinas, 
is singularly graphic. " During eight months we had 
suffered from the quartering of the soldiers among us, 
with many other inconveniences. We therefore re- 
solved on quitting France by night. We left the sol- 
diers in their beds, and abandoned our house with its 



70 REMAINS OF THE FORT. 

furniture. We contrived to hide ourselves in Dauph- 
iny, for ten days, search being continually made for 
us, but our hostess, though much questioned, was 
faithful and did not betray us." 

These simple delineations, more forcibly than the 
dignified style of the historian, seem to bring to our 
ears the haughty voice of Ludovico Magno, in his in- 
strument revoking the edict of Henry IV. ; ** We do 
most strictly repeat our prohibition, unto all our sub- 
jects of the pretended reformed religion, that neither 
they, nor their wives, nor children, do depart our king- 
dom, countries, or lands of our dominion, nor trans- 
port their goods and effects, on pain, for men so 
offending, of their being sent to the gallies, and of 
confiscation of bodies and goods, for the women." 

The information derived from this ancient lady, 
who in all the virtues of domestic life, was a worthy 
descendant of the Hucruenots, added new interest to 
their relics, still visible, among the rural scenery of 
Oxford. On the summit of a high hill, commanding 
an extensive prospect, are the ruins of the Fort. It 
was regularly constructed with bastions, though most 
of the stones have been removed for the purposes of 
aorriculture. Within its enclosure are the vesticres of 
a well. There the grape-vine still lifts its purple clus- 
ters, the currant its crimson berries, the rose its rich 
blossoms, the asparagus its bulbous head and feathery 
banner. 

To these simple tokens which Nature has preserved, 



HUGUENOT ANCESTRY. 71 

it might be fitting and well, were some more enduring 
memorial added of that pious, patient, and high-hearted 
race, from whom some of the most illustrious names 
in different sections of our country, trace their descent 
with pleasure and with pride. 



THE CHARTER-OAK, AT HARTFORD, 

TO THE GREAT OAK OF GENESEO. 



Glorious Patriarch of the West ! 
Often have mine ears been blest 
With some tale from traveller wight, 
Of thy majesty and might. 
Rearing high, on column proud. 
Massy verdure toward the cloud, 
While thy giant branches throw 
Coolness o'er the vales below. 
Humbler rank, indeed, is mine, 
Yet I boast a kindred line, 
And though Nature spared to set 
On my head thy coronet, 
Still, from history's scroll I claim 
Somewhat of an honored name ; 
So, I venture, kingly tree. 
Thus to bow myself to thee. 
Once there came, in days of yore, 
A minion from the mother shore. 



THE CHARTER-OAK, AT HARTFORD. 73 



With men at arms, and flashing eye 

Of pre-determined tyranny, 

High words he spake, and stretched his hand 

Young Freedom's charter to demand. 

But lo ! it vanished from his sight, 

And sudden darkness fell like night. 

While baffled still, in wrath and pain, 

He, groping, sought the prize in vain ; 

For a brave hand, in trust to me, 

Had given that germ of liberty. 

And like our relative of old, 

Who clasped his arms serenely bold 

Around the endangered prince, who fled 

The scaffold where his father bled, 

I hid it, safe from storm and blast. 

Until the days of dread were past, 

And then my faithful breast restored 

The treasure to its rightful lord. 

For this, do pilgrims seek my side, 
And artists sketch my varying pride, 
And far away o'er ocean's brine, 
An acorn or a leaf of mine 
I hear are stored as relics rich 
In antiquarian's classic niche. 
Now if I were but in my prime, 
Some hundred lustrums less of time 
Upon my brow, perchance such charm 
Of flattery might have wrought me harm. 



74 THE CHARTER-OAK, AT HARTFORD. 

Made the young pulse too wildly beat, 
Or woke the warmth of self-conceit. 
But age, slow curdling through my veins, 
All touch of arrogance restrains. 
For pride, alas ! and boastful trust 
Are not for trees, which root in dust. 
Nor men, who ere their noontide ray, 
Oft like our wind-swept leaves decay. 
Yet not unscathed, have centuries sped 
Their course around my hoary head, 
My gouty limbs for ease I strain. 
And twist my gnarled roots in vain, 
And still beneath the wintry sky 
These stricken branches quake and sigh, 
Which erst in manly vigor sent 
Stout challenge to each element. 

But lingering memories haunt my brain, 

And hover round the past, in vain, 

Of chiefs and tribes who here had sway. 

Then vanished like the mist away. 

Near river's marge, by verdure cheered. 

Their humble, bowery homes they reared, 

At night, their council-fires were red. 

At dawn, the greenwood chase they sped ; - 

But now, the deer, that bounded high. 

Amid his forest canopy, 

The stag, that nobly stood at bay. 

The thicket where at noon he lay. 



THE CHARTER-OAK, AT HARTFORD. 75 



And they, whose flying arrow stirred 
And staid the fleetest of the herd. 
All, like the bubbles on the stream, 
Have mingled with oblivion's dream, 
A diff*erent race usurped my glade. 
Whose cheek the Saxon blood betrayed, 
And he, the master of this dome. 
Within whose gates I found my home, 
With stately step and bearing cold, 
The poor red-featured throng controlled, 
And their mad orgies hushed to fear 
Through pealing trump whose echoes clear 
At midniffht full of terror came, 
With the Great Spirit's awful name. 

Too soon those sires, sedate and grave, 

Recede on Time's unresting wave, 

And hospitality sincere, 

And virtues simple and severe. 

And deep respect for ancient sway 

Methinks, with them, have past away. 

That honesty, which scorned of old 

The traflic of unrighteous gold. 

Drank from the well its crystal pure. 

And left the silver cup secure, 

Seems now submerged, with struggles vain, 

In wild desire of sudden gain, 

Or lost in wealth's unhallowed pride, 

By patient toil unsanctified. 



76 THE CHARTER-OAK, AT HARTFORD. 

Change steals o'er all ; the bark canoe 
No longer cleaves the streamlet blue, 
Nor even the flying wheel retains 
Its ancient prowess o'er the plains; 
The horse, with nerves of iron frame. 
Whose breath is smoke, whose food is flame, 
Surmounts the earth with fearful sweep, 
And strangely rules the cleaving deep, 
While they, who once, at sober pace, 
Reflecting rode, from place to place, 
Now, with rash speed and brains that swim. 
In reckless plans, resemble him. 

But yet, I would not cloud my strain, 

Nor think the world is in its wane. 

For 't is the fault of age, they say, 

Its own decadence to betray. 

By ceaseless blame of things that are, 

So, of this frailty I '11 beware, 

And keep my blessings full in sight. 

While in this land of peace and light, 

Where liberty and plenty dwell, 

And knowledore seeks the lowliest cell, 

No woodman's steel my heart invades. 

Nor heathen footsteps track my shades. 

Yet too expansive grows the lay. 

Forgive its egotism, I pray, 

And should'st thou in thy goodness deign, 

A line responsive to my strain, 



THE CHARTER-OAK, AT HARTFORD. 77 

Fain would I of their welfare hear, 
That group of noble souls, and dear. 
Who from their eastern birth-place prest, 
To choose a mansion in the west. 
Reluctant from our home and heart. 
We saw those stalwart forms depart, 
And if amid thy vallies green, 
Thou aught of them hast heard or seen. 
And will impart that lore to me, 
Right welcome shall thy missive be. 

And now, may Spring, that decks the plains. 
With kindling fervor touch thy veins. 
And Summer smile with healthful skies, 
And Autumn pour her thousand dies, 
And many a year stern Winter spare 
Thee in thy glory, fresh and fair. 
Thy gratitude to heaven to show 
By deeds of love to those below, 
A mighty shade from noontide heat. 
When pilgrims halt, or strangers greet, 
Through woven leaves, a pleasant sound, 
When murmuring breezes sigh around, 
And many a nest for minstrel fair 
That sing God's praise in upper air : 
So may'st thou blessing live, and blest. 
Monarch and Patriarch of the West. 



78 DISAPPEARANCE OF THE CHARTER. 

The venerable Tree, at Hartford, Connecticut, 
known by the name of the " Charter-Oak," has, for 
more than a century and a half, enjcjyed the honor of 
having protected the endangered instrument of lib- 
erty and of law. When the despotic principles of 
James 2d revealed themselves in the mother country 
and extended to her colonies. Sir Edmund Andross, 
the governor of Massachusetts, determined to compre- 
hend within his own jurisdiction the whole of New 
England and New York. One step towards this am- 
bitious design, was to gain possession of the Charter 
of Connecticut, which had been granted by Charles 2d 
soon after the Restoration. To enforce his arbitrary 
policy, he made his appearance in Hartford, with his 
suite and sixty men at arms, on the 31st of October, 
1687. The Assembly of the State were then in ses- 
sion, and evinced extreme reluctance to comply with 
his demands. Governor Treat spoke earnestly and 
eloquently of the perils which the Colony had sus- 
tained during its infancy, of the hardships which he 
had himself endured, and that it would be to them, 
and to him, like the yielding up of life, to surrender 
the privileges so dearly bought, and so fondly valued. 
The discussion was prolonged until evening, when 
the Charter was unwillingly produced. But the lights 
being suddenly extinguished, it was conveyed away 
by Captain Wadsworth, and secretly lodged in the 
cavity of that ancient Oak, which now bears its 
name. 



SIR EDMUND ANDROSS. 79 

Though Sir Edmund Andross was foiled in possess- 
ing himself of this instrument, he still proceeded to 
assume the government of Connecticut. He began, 
with protestations of regard for the welfare of the 
people,, but his arbitrary sway so soon disclosed itself, 
that a historian of that period, remarked, that " Nero 
concealed his tyrannical disposition more years than 
Sir Edmund did months^' The charges of public 
officers, during his administration, were exorbitant; 
the widow and fatherless, however distant or desti- 
tute, were compelled to make a journey to Boston, 
for all business connected with the testamentary settle- 
ment of estates ; the titles of the colonists, to the 
lands which they had purchased, were annulled ; and' 
he declared all deeds derived from the Indians, " no 
better than the scratch of a bear's paw." At length, 
the spirit of the " Old Bay State" roused itself, de- 
termining no longer to submit to such oppression : and 
on the 18th of April, 1689, the Bostonians, aided by 
the inhabitants of their vicinity, made themselves 
masters of the Castle, and threw Sir Edmund and his 
council into prison, from whence they were remanded 
to England for trial. 

When the abdication of James, and the establish- 
ment of William and Mary on the throne, removed 
the cloud from Great Britain and her dependences, 
the oracular Oak opened its bosom, and restored the 
intrusted Charter to the rejoicing people. This ven- 
erated tree stands on the domain, originally belonging 



80 HON. SAMUEL WYLLYS. 



to the Hon. Samuel Wyllys, one of the earliest 
magistrates and most distinguished founders of the 
State of Connecticut. His mansion, which was noted 
for its elegance, during the simplicity of colonial 
times, was the wonder of the roaming red man ; and 
its surrounding grounds were laid out somewhat in 
imitation of the fair estate he had left in his own na- 
tive Warwickshire. In its garden, anciently laid out 
by him, are still found apple trees bearing fruit, which 
he imported from Normandy 150 years since. By his 
virtues and dignified deportment, he acquired great 
influence over the Indians, whose wigwams were thick- 
ly planted in the great meadows toward the south-east, 
and along the margin of Connecticut river. When 
their midnight carousals arose to such a point that a 
quarrel might be apprehended, he often stilled their 
uproar, and sent them affrighted to their homes by 
a few words uttered from his open window through 
a speaking-trumpet, in the name of their Great 
Spirit. Such was the security and confidence in the 
honesty of the people, in which that honorable and 
wealthy family dwelt, that till within sixty years, a 
large silver cup was left unharmed by a well, for the 
accommodation of all, who in passing through the 
premises, might wish to taste its waters. 

The handsome modern structure of I. W. Stuart, 
Esq., now occupies the site of the ancient Wyllys 
mansion, and the venerable Charter-Oak, which is 
highly appreciated by its present owners, and much 



RELICS FROM THE CHARTER-OAK. 81 

visited by strangers, preserves, though strongly marked 
by time, a vigorous old age. Some of its pressed 
leaves, or small articles made from a supernumerary 
branch, in the form of boxes, letter-folders, &c., are 
found to be acceptable gifts both to the antiquarian, 
and the patriot. 



C) 



82 THE GREAT OAK OF GENESEO. 



THE GREAT OAK OF GENESEO, 



TO THE CHARTER-OAK AT HARTFORD. 



Friend of the rising Sun ! thy words were fair, 

And should ere this have claimed my answering care, 

But age is tardy, and the truth to tell, 

I boast no clerkly skill, like those who dwell 

Where every little district hath its school. 

The pen, that subtle wand of thought to rule. 

Yet still I give thee thanks, for long thy name 

Hath been familiar, and its annaled fame. 

Thine open bosom at thy Country's need, 

Thy prompt allegiance to her hero's deed, 

Thy staunch secretiveness, thy fair renown, 

The waving honors of thy verdant crown ; 

And should a despot's step again invade 

Her peaceful counsels, or her quiet shade, 

May other veterans at her summons leap, 

And other sacred Oaks her archives keep. 

Far into times remote, my memory strays, 
And with the mist of buried ages plays, 



THE GREAT OAK OF GENESEO. 83 

When but the unshorn forest marked the glade, 
And tribes of men, who like its leaves decayed, 
The roving hunters' toil their food supplied, 
The war their pastime, and the chase their pride. 
Stern, lofty chiefs the various clans controlled, 
With stony eye and brows unmoved and cold, 
They raised their arm, the war-dance wheeled its 

round, 
The unshrinking captive to the stake was bound, 
Fierce torture strode, barbaric revels reigned. 
And orgies dire the ear of midnight pained. 

Like the wild billows on some troubled bay, 
Rose the brief tribes and raged and sank away. 
Though few the traits their barren history gave, 
And fate ordained them for oblivion's grave, 
Yet still, so deep, mid all the floods of time. 
Are notched the waymarks of our earliest prime. 
That by their side, life's later traces seem 
The idle pageants of a passing dream. 

Yes, even as yesterday, to me in thought. 

Appears the change, a pale-browed race have wrought. 

They came, new blossoms sprang, new fountains flowed, 

O'er the blue stream the white-winged vessels rode. 

To sudden birth, the frequent village strove 

Like full-armed Pallas from the brain of Jove, 



84 THE GREAT OAK OF GENESEO. 

Fair herds and flocks o'er velvet meadows stray, 
Where erst the wolf and panther prowled for prey, 
While broad canals unite with giant chain 
The wondering inland to the mighty main, 
Lo ! the poor red man, feeling in his heart 
The long-drawn drama of his power depart. 
Stood for a moment, in his fallen pride, 
Like statued bronze, by rock or river side. 
Bent o'er his fathers' graves, with sigh supp/est. 
While speechless anguish heaved his ample breast. 
Gazed till deep midnight veiled his favorite shore, 
Then westward journeyed, to return no more. 

Friend at the East ! though many a year hath sped 
Light-winged and scathless o'er my towering head. 
Yet now, methinks, dread Winter longer reigns. 
And Spring, more tardy, wakes the frost-bound plains 
While through my veins a feebler current flows, 
To make resistance to my stormy foes ; 
But this is Age, we both must own its sway, 
And thou and I, like frailer man, decay. 

Of them thou ask'st, who from thy native scene, 
Where thy fair river flows in pride serene. 
Since the last brief half-century's fleeting shade. 
Became the owners of ray sylvan glade. 
Brothers of noble name and manly prime. 
An honor to their blest New England clime. 



THE GREAT OAK OF GENESEO. 85 

Who dauntless bore the hardships, toil and strife, 

That mark the opening of colonial life. 

God blessed their way, — the harvest reared its head, 

And snowy flocks o'er hills and valleys spread ; 

God blessed their way, — and in their mansion throve 

Pure hospitality, and virtuous love. 

The elder parted first, the man of might, 
The strong in battle, for his country's right, 
Who, on her northern shore, with veteran zeal. 
Endured the sharpness of the British steel ; 
Yet mild in peaceful age, his hoary head 
Sank, full of honors, to its lowly bed. 
But now, alas ! the recent mourners bend, 
Where sleeps in dust, the master and the friend. 
Who propped my roots against the encroaching tide, 
And led admiring strangers to my side. 
Sweet plants of love he gathered round his breast, 
And drank their fragrance, till he went to rest; 
His princely wealth sustained the arts refined. 
And poured rich bounties o'er the realm of mind, 
For this an unborn race, with grateful prayers, 
Shall bless his memory, and record his cares. 

But hark ! autumnal winds careering low. 

Announce the coming of the wintry foe, 

I bow myself, my adverse lot to take, 

With such poor aid, as age and sorrow make ; 

Damp through my boughs the mournful breezes swell. 

And sigh amid my leaves. Master and friend, farewell ! 



86 



THE BROTHERS. 



The brothers, Messrs. William and James Wads- 
worth, left their native Connecticut in early manhood, 
for Western New York. The region of Geneseo, 
where they decided to fix their residence, was entirely 
uncultivated, and their personal labors, with the con- 
trast to the state of society and habits of life to which 
they had been accustomed, were great. But by firm 
endurance and prudent foresight, they overcame every 
obstacle, and laid the foundation of extensive wealth 
and influence, which they used for the good of others. 
The elder accepted a command in the service of his 
country, during her last war with Great Britain, 
and was wounded in battle. He died at an advanced 
age, highly respected and honored. 

The death of Mr. James Wadsworth, is a recent 
sorrow. It took place at his beautiful mansion in the 
month of June, 1844. Refinement of feeling, intel- 
lectual tastes, and a noble hospitality, were among 
the features of his character ; and hoary years brought 
no mental declension, and drew no shade over the 
ardent affections by which he was distinguished, 
and in whose reciprocity was his undeclining solace. 
The grief of those most dear to him, is shared by 
many hearts, to whom his liberality in the cause of 
education, had rendered him a benefactor. The es- 
tablishment of schools, the diffusion of books, and 
the best modes of culture for the unfolding mind, 
occupied much of his thought and effort during the 
later years of life. And surely, no form of munificence 



BIG TREE. 87 



should entitle to a more grateful and lasting remem- 
brance, than that which promotes the right educa- 
tion of youth ; especially in a republic, where most 
emphatically " knowledge is power," and ignorance 
and vice subversive of safety. 

The Great Western Tree, so celebrated for its an- 
tiquity and magnificence, is on the estate of the late 
Hon, James Wadsworth. It is a white oak, of massy 
foliage, with a trunk seventy feet in height, ere the 
protrusion of the branches, and thirty in circum- 
ference, so that seven persons are scarcely able to 
clasp it, with arms extended to their utmost length. 
It stands on the banks of the Geneseo, whose gently 
flowing waters wind their way through broad valleys, 
studded with fine trees, rising singly or in groups, 
and forming the very perfection of park scenery. In the 
old Maps of New York, the surrounding region bears 
the appellation of " Big Tree," and an Indian chief- 
tain of the same name, formerly ruled over a tribe 
inhabiting that vicinity. In winter he resided on the 
uplands, and in summer came with his people, to cul- 
tivate some lands adjoining the " Big Tree." Beneath 
its dense canopy the chiefs of neighboring tribes 
often assembled to hold council, to see their young 
men contend in athletic games, to advise them to 
good conduct, and invoke on their nation, the blessing 
of the Great Spirit. 

This majestic Oak is suppossed to have attained the 
age of at least 1000 and possibly 1500 years. Of its 



88 INDIAN CHIEF. 



date there is neither history nor tradition, but one of a 
similar species, and of less than a third part of its 
diameter, having been cut down, revealed three hun- 
dred annual circles. 

The neio-hborincr aborigines were accustomed of 

o o o 

old to regard it with veneration, as a sort of in intel- 
ligent or tutelary being. 

Among the tribes who formerly inhabited the valley 
of the Geneseo, was a small one, which had made 
such progress in civilization, as to be able to speak a 
little English, to read imperfectly, and to sing psalms 
very well. They often conducted their simple wor- 
ship under the spreading branches of the '' Big Tree." 
In the summer of 1790, Mr. William Wadsworth 
(afterwards the General), received the appointment 
of Captain, and paraded his company of fifty or sixty 
men, collected from a space now equal to two or three 
counties, in front of the log-house then tenanted by 
himself and his brother. The chief of the before- 
mentioned tribe, who was a man of mild and friendly 
disposition, attended to witness the spectacle. His 
countenance was observed to be strongly marked with 
sadness. Mr. James Wadsworth inquired what was 
the cause of his depression. Pointing to the company 
of soldiers, and then turning to the remnant of his 
own people, he said mournfully, '' You are the rising 
sun ; hut we are the setting sun ; " and covering his 
head with his mantle, wept bitterly. 



SUNRISE AT NEW LONDON. 89 



SUNEISE AT NEW LONDON. 

The welkin glows ! what floods of purple light, 

Announce the coming of the King of Day — 

The streaming rays that every moment grow 

More tremulously bright, in haste uplift 

The diamond-pointed spear, and swiftly run 

Before his chariot. Lo ! with dazzling pomp 

The gates of morning burst, and forth he comes 

In light ineffable, and strength supreme, 

Best image of the God that rules the world. 

Hill-top, and sacred spire, and monument, 

Receive him first, with princely reverence, 

And blushing, point him to the vales below. 

The sea doth greet him, flecked with glidino- sails. 

That catch his radiance on their breast of snow, 

While joyously the little islands touch 

Their waving coronets, in loyalty. 

Up go the aspiring rays, and reddening fall 

On dome, and spreading tree, and cheerful haunt 

Of peace and plenty. Here our fathers dwelt, 

Simply in ancient times, the scattered huts 

Of the dark Indian, mingling with their own. 



90 SUNRISE AT NEW LONDON. 

Methinks even now, amid yon garden-shades, 
Or on the margin of his lilied lake, 
Sage Winthrop walks, our old colonial sire, 
Musing how best to advance his country's weal. 
On his broad forehead sits the conscious thought 
Of power unmixed with pride, and that pure warmth 
Of patriotism, which nerved him to endure 
Toil and privation, for the infant State 
That well his wisdom ruled. 

See, rosy beams 
Kindle around the pleasant home, where dwelt 
The saintly Huntington, in danger tried, 
The firm in battle, and the fond of peace. 
High in the friendship of Mount Vernon's chief, 
He walked in meekness, on to life's decline. 
Seeking that honor which from God doth come, 
And hath its crown above the starry skies. 
But ah ! the slant rays tint a lowly grave, 
Where rests the tuneful bard, by nature loved. 
Brainard ! the echoes of thy spirit-lyre 
Do warn us hither, and we fain would sit 
Beside thy pillow, and commune with thee. 
O, gentle friend ! the autumnal dews are chill 
Upon thy grassy bed, and the frail flowers. 
Whose saddened hearts are ominous of ill. 
Cling closely there, as if they knew that thou. 
Like them, didst feel an early frost and die. 
Yet art thou of that band that cannot die. 
Thou hast a dwelling with us, and thy words 



SUNRISE AT NEW LONDON. 91 

Are sweetly on our lips, at close of day, 
At lamp-light, by the hearth-stone. Unforgot 
Shalt thou remain, for the sweet germs of song 
Do flourish, when the gauds of wealth and pomp 
Sink in oblivion. 

Lo ! the risen sun 
Stays not his course, but o'er the horizon sends 
The Maker's message. On he goes, to wake 
The self-same joys and sorrows, that have trod 
Beside him, from Creation. In his track 
Spring up the chronicles of days that were, 
And legends, that the hoary-headed keep 
In memory's treasure-house, when pitiless war 
And Arnold's treason, woke the fires that made 
A people homeless. See, on yonder spot, 
Where the white column marks the buried brave. 
Came the poor widow, and the orphan band. 
Searching mid piles of carnage, for the forms 
More dear than life. 

But sure, yon kingly orb, 
Mid all the zones through which his chariot rolls, 
Beholds no realm more favored than our own, 
Here, in this broad green West. So may he find 
Hands knit in brotherhood, and hearts inspired 
With love to Him, from whom all blessings flow. 



92 FORT TRUMBULL. 



New London, in Connecticut, is pleasantly situated 
a short distance from the junction of the Thames with 
Long Island Sound. Nature has conferred upon it 
important advantages of position and defence. She 
scooped a noble basin just within the mouth of the 
Thames, on the west side of which she spread an un- 
even rocky projection in the form of a crescent. On 
this spot the city is built. The hills of Groton, and 
the low sands of Waterford, extend on either hand like 
outstretched arms around the harbor. Fisher's Island 
stands back as an additional embankment on the east. 
Other small islands of the Sound recede into dark 
specks upon its bosom, and the narrow line of Long 
Island, lying like the edge of a slender cloud upon the 
limits of the horizon, vary the prospect with the 
elements of beauty and grandeur. 

Fort Trumbull occupies an eligible situation for the 
protection of the harbor and town. The old fortress 
has been entirely demolished, and a costly structure, 
planned with ability, and so far as it has yet advanced, 
executed in a solid and symmetrical style, is now rising 
upon its ruins. Opposite, on the east side of the river, 
is Fort Griswold, the site of one of the most barbarous 
massacres which occurred during the revolutionary 
war. This also has been repaired, and an additional 
battery erected for an outpost, but the main fortifica- 
tion remains the same. 

A monumental column of granite, erected to com- 
memorate the fatal action of Groton Fort on the sixth 



GROTON MONUMENT. 93 

of September, 1781, forms a conspicuous ornament of 
this height. It is built of hewn stone, taken from a 
quarry not far distant. It is 125 feet high, and the 
hill on which it stands 129 feet above the level of the 
ocean. The ascent is by 1G8 stone steps, rising spi- 
rally on the inside. But the prospect amply repays all 
the toil of the ascent. The landscape, though not so 
rich and luxuriant as many others, is perhaps as varied 
and interesting as any in New England. On the 
south, you have the Sound with its winding shores, its 
gliding sails and lovely islands, and on the north, the 
river Thames, retiring behind the hills towards Nor- 
wich. Those hills themselves, once the residence of 
the Mohegan tribe of Indians, suggest numerous asso- 
ciations connected with that fast-decaying tribe ; and 
their highest summit is crowned with a small white 
picturesque church, erected some few years since for 
their benefit. On the west, and apparently beneath 
your feet, lies New London with its streets and dwell- 
ings conspicuously displayed, its spires and masts, its 
rising forts, and its spacious and well-defined harbor. 

On the south front of the monument, a marble en- 
tablature is fitted into the walls, containing the names 
of the eighty-one persons who perished in the fort. Only 
a few of these fell at the taking of the fort. By far 
the greater part were slain after the surrender with 
the sword and bayonet, when they had thrown down 
their arms and were supplicating mercy. The British 
landed in two divisions. That which assailed the fort, 



94 GOVERNOR WINTHROP. 



5 



was commanded by Lt. Col. Eyre, and Majors Mont- 
gomery and Bloomfield. The western division was 
commanded by Arnold the traitor, who planned the 
expedition, and was its leader and guide. He landed 
below Fort Trumbull, marched directly to New Lon- 
don, and the town and shipping were soon enveloped 
in flames. Arnold was born in Norwich, only fourteen 
miles from the place which he so wantonly destroyed. 
The beautiful place of his birth is ashamed of his 
memory. 

New London was one of the earliest settled towns 
in the State. Its founder, John Winthrop, Esq., son 
to the first governor of Massachusetts, was distin- 
guished as a scholar, patriot, and gentleman. He was 
born in 1605, in Groton, England, but emigrated to 
this country as soon as he had completed his educa- 
tion. He interested himself warmly in the young 
colony of Connecticut, and in 1648, was one of the 
band of forty citizens, who came with their families 
and commenced a settlement at New London. For 
many successive years he was chosen governor of the 
colony, and will always be numbered among its bright- 
est ornaments. The mansion-house which he built at 
New London, is still one of the most elegant residen- 
ces in the place. Its present proprietor, Charles A. 
Lewis, Esq., while he has sedulously preserved the 
original plan of the building, has added to its beauty 
and convenience, and greatly improved and embel- 
lished the grounds. The situation is fine, command- 



GENERAL HUNTINGTON. 95 

ing a view of the town and harbor, and having a beau- 
tiful, gem-like lakelet in the rear, with a romantic 
mill-stream by its side. 

Among her distinguished men. New London reckons 
also, another Governor Winthrop, Fitz-John Winthrop, 
Esq., the son of the founder, who acquired an honora- 
ble reputation both as a military commander and by 
the success with which he managed a diplomatic 
agency in London. Likewise, another of our old 
colonial governors, Gurdon Saltonstall, Esq. lived and 
died in New London, and previous to his advancement 
to the highest office in the colony, was the beloved and 
highly revered minister of the town. 

Nor should the name of Gen. Jedediah Huntington 
be omitted. He was long a resident of New London, 
though a native of Norwich, and thither, in compli- 
ance with his own request, his remains were removed 
and deposited in the tomb of his ancestors. He com- 
manded a regiment as early as the year 1775, served 
at one time as aid to Gen. Washington, whose esteem 
and confidence he always retained, and before the con- 
clusion of the war, attained the rank of a general 
officer. He settled in New London immediately after 
the war, and from that time until his death, held the 
office of collector of the revenue of the port. He 
chose for the site of his dwelling, a beautiful emi- 
nence, then in the rear of the town, though now the 
buildings have spread beyond it, and built a solid and 
convenient house, in a style which has been called the 



96 THE POET BRAINARD. 



cottage ornee. It is now the property of Rev. Mr. Hurl- 
burt. The taste and elegance of the building, the 
fine water prospect which it commands, its beau- 
tiful trees and grassy slopes, render it a delightful 
residence. 

Among the buildings that escaped the conflagration 
of the traitor Arnold, is the house of Judge Brainard, 
the father of G. G. C. Brainard, the gifted poet of 
New London. Long will his memory be cherished 
among the favorite melodists of his native land. He 
was born and passed the greater part of his life in this 
place, and to his associations with its pursuits, and the 
influence of its scenery on his mind, we may trace 
some of the most original imagery of his poems. 
Here in the arms of fraternal affection at the early 
age of thirty-two, he meekly resigned life, with all its 
tissue of joys and sorrows. His disposition was tinged 
with melancholy, the world had never seemed to him 
radiant with sunshine, but his last days were bright with 
immortal hopes. He died at peace with his Maker, in 
the faith of the gospel, and to use his own words, 
" forgiving all, and praying for the salvation of all." 



I roamed where Thames, old Ocean's breast doth cheer, 
Pouring from crystal urn the waters sheen. 
What time dim twilight's silent step was near. 
And gathering dews impearled the margin green ; 
Yet, though mild autumn with a smile serene 



MONODY TO BRAINARD. 97 



Had gently fostered summer's lingering bloom, 
Methought strange sadness lingered o'er the scene, 
While the lone river, murmuring on in gloom. 
Deplored its sweetest bard, laid early in the tomb. 

His soul for friendship formed, sublime, sincere, 
Of each ungenerous deed his high disdain, 
Perchance the cold world scanned with eye severe ; 
Perchance his harp, her guerdon failed to gain ; 
But Nature guards his fame, for not in vain 
He sang her shady dells and mountains hoar. 
King Phillip's billowy bay repeats his name, 
To its gray tower, and with eternal roar 
Niagara bears it on, to the far-echoing shore. 

Each sylvan haunt he loved, the simplest flower 

That burned Heaven's incense in its bosom fair, 

The crested billow, with its fitful power, 

The chirping nest that claimed a mother's care, 

All woke his worship, as some altar rare 

Or sainted shrine doth win the pilgrim's knee ; 

And he hath crone to rest, where earth and air 

Lavish their sweetest charms, while loud and free 

Sounds forth the wind-swept harp, of his own native sea. 

His country's brave defenders, {^vi and gray. 
By penury stricken, with despairing sighs, 

He nobly sang, and breathed a warning lay 

7 



98 MONODY TO BRAINARD. 



Lest from their graves a withering corse should rise : 
But now, where pure and bright, the peaceful skies 
And watching stars look down, on Groton's height, 
Tilth monument attracts the traveller's eyes, 
Whose souls unshrinking took their martyr-flight. 
When Arnold's traitor-sword flashed out in fiendish 
might. 

Youth with sflad hand her frolic germs had sown. 
And garlands clustered round his manly head, 
Those garlands withered, and he stood alone 
While on his cheek the gnawing hectic fed, 
And chilling death-dews o'er his temple spread : 
But on his soul a quenchless star arose. 
Whose hallowed beams their brightest lustre shed 
When the dimmed eye to its last pillow goes, — 
He followed where it led, and found a saint's repose. 

And now farewell ! The rippling stream shall hear 
No more the echo of thy sportive oar ; 
Nor the loved group, thy father's halls that cheer, 
Joy in the magic of thy presence more ; 
Long shall their tears thy broken lyre deplore ; 
Yet doth thine image, warm and deathless, dwell 
With those who love the minstrel's tuneful lore, 
And still thy music, like a treasured spell, 
Thrill deep within their souls. Lamented bard, fare- 
well ! 



THE VILLAGE CHURCH. 99 



THE VILLAGE CHURCH. 



Lo ! mid yon vale's secluded green, 
Through clustering thickets dimly seen, 
The village church, whose walls of snow, 
Column, nor arch, nor buttress show, 
Nor taper spire, nor tuneful bell, 
With echoing chime, or funeral knell. 
To pour upon the balmy air 
Sweet warning to the house of prayer. 

Yet from their humble homes the train 
As duly wind o'er hill and plain, 
As faithful heed the hallowed day, 
As gladly press, their vows to pay, 
And hear God's word with trust as fair 
As though Religion's pomp were there. 

Bent o'er his staff, with temples gray. 

The aged Pastor takes his way. 

Through shady lanes, where dew-drops bright. 

Exulting, shun the blaze of light ; 



100 THE VILLAGE CHURCH. 

And pondering calm, those holy themes 
That win the soul from earthly dreams, 
Thinks of his flock, with shepherd's care. 
And bears them on his voiceless prayer. 
Here, in this rustic glebe, content, 
The vigor of his prime he spent ; 
Here found the bride who cheered his breast. 
And here his children's children blest. 
And sooth to say, had wealth or power 
Broke with their wiles his musing hour, 
The richer meed, the wider fame, 
The tinkling cymbal of a name. 
Perchance had checked devotion's sway, 
Or stolen its heaven-born zeal away. 

An upright man he was, and kind, 
A model for the virtuous mind ; 
No envious eye, nor gossip's tongue 
A shadow o'er his name had flunor; 
Still to his board, though scantly drest. 
He freely led the entering guest. 
Nor bade, beside his lowly gate 
The unrequited suppliant wait; 
Though like the Levite, who of old 
Nor lands might claim, nor hoarded gold, 
He held, amid the soil he trod 
No heritage, save Israel's God. 

See, round the simple porch, a train 
With greeting smile, his step detain. 



Whose kindling eye, and reverent air. 
Their love and gratitude declare, 
For him, who long with fervent tone 
Had made their joys and woes his own. 
Nor he that honest warmth restrains 
Meet payment for his toils and pains; 
Unskilled with cold or formal art 
To freeze the current of the heart, 
Or frown on even an infant's zeal 
The pressure of his hand to feel. 

As o'er the sacred desk he bends 
Each glance toward him confiding bends. 
For though in quaint or homely phrase 
The great salvation he displays, 
Yet thoughts of holy love and zeal 
Some touch of eloquence reveal, 
And changing brow, and starting tear, 
Bespeak that eloquence sincere. 

Meanwhile, with well-uplifted heart. 
The old precentor bears a part ; 
And waking loud the ancient chime, 
His hand high raised to beat the time, 
Calls forth no wild Italian trill. 
But childhood's accents, sweetly shrill. 
And quavering age, with tresses white. 
In one full burst of praise unite. 



102 THE VILLAGE CHURCH. 



There sits the farmer, brown with toil, 
Whose hardened hands have tilled the soil, 
Since first an urchin, strong and gay, 
He gambolled mid the new-mown hay. 
And by his side his faithful wife 
Unspoiled by pomps or gauds of life, 
Who mid her hardy offspring blest, 
Her slumbering infant on her breast, 
Deems not that aught of scorn or shame 
Blends with a nursing mother's name. 
Even though in Heaven's own temple, she 
Essays its tenderest ministry. 

Still, through the casement's humble screen, 
A consecrated spot is seen, 
Where peaceful laid in lowly bed. 
With springing turf and daisies spread, 
The fathers, 'neath that hallowed shade 
Serenely sleep, where once they prayed. 
And pensive are the thoughts that stray 
To dear ones wrapped in mouldering clay, 
And fervent is the love, and free. 
That clings, sequestered church, to thee, 
Who thus dost rear a guardian head, 
To bless the livingr and the dead. 



VILLAGE CONGREGATION. 103 

The churches that spring up on every village green, 
are pleasing and peculiar features of the scenery of 
New England. They are often seen side by side with 
the small school house, in loving brotherhood, teachers 
for this life and the next. 

The simplicity of the appearance of many of their 
congregations, might be an object of curious observa- 
tion to those accustomed only to the fashionably dressed 
throngs of city worshippers. I once attended divine 
service, many years since, with some friends, in an ex- 
ceedingly secluded village, at the distance of a few 
miles from the spot where we were spending a part of 
the summer. The church was small and antique, and 
remote from other buildings. The interior was divi- 
ded into square pews, the unpainted wood around the 
top of each, being wrought into a row of small ban- 
isters; while over the pulpit, was suspended a cum- 
brous fiounding-board, which might seem, like the 
sword of Damocles, to menace the head beneath it. 

The audience was almost entirely composed of prac- 
tical agriculturalists and their families. They were 
attired with perfect neatness, though with little con- 
formity to the reigning modes. Their bronzed cheeks 
and toil-hardened hands, showed that the physical 
comfort of a day of rest might be appreciated, while 
their intellio-ent and serious countenances evinced that 
they aspired to its higher privileges. 

The weather being warm, many of the farmers re- 
moved their coats, depositing them on the back of 



104 AGED PASTOR. 



their seats, and seemed much to enjoy the additional 
coolness, while they thus disclosed the snowy white- 
ness of their coarse, homemade linen; that now almost 
obsolete branch of manufacture, which had such close 
affinity with habits of domestic industry and comfort. 
Their wives were evidently inured to toil, nor of that 
toil ashamed. A few of the mothers bore in their 
arms healthful and ruddy infants, leaving probably no 
person at home, with whom they could safely intrust 
so precious a charge. They seemed to make no 
trouble, or if any was anticipated, the mother with- 
drew with them. Here and there, one might be seen 
in a quiet slumber, entirely releasing the attention of 
the careful parent. Sleeping innocence is always 
beautiful, and the guileless spirit of the babe need not 
be counted an unfitting, though an unwonted guest, in 
the temple of a God of truth. 

The form of the aged pastor was bent with time, 
and his thin hair of a silvery whiteness. For more 
than fifty years he had been the guide and friend of 
his people : — 



(( 



And ne'er had changed, nor wished to change his place." 



The affection was reciprocal, and it was touching to 
see with what attention they listened to every word 
that fell from his lips. His voice was tremulous, and 
the involuntary movement of his hand paralytic, but 
he spoke to them of sacred themes, and they loved 
thera the better because he uttered them, and him the 



ATTACHMENT OF THE PEOPLE. 105 



better because his life had so long been in harmony 
with what he taught. For two generations he had 
been with them, at bridal, and at burial, at the chris- 
tening-carol, and at the death-wail. He had rejoiced 
in their prosperity, and at their last conflict with the 
Spoiler, had armed himself with prayer, and stood by, 
until there was no more breath. He had shed the 
baptismal dew on infant brows, that, now mottled with 
grey, bent over their children's children. His flock 
had not been so numerous, but that every part of their 
history was familiar to him, and kept its place in his 
memory. Such an intercourse had created, as it 
ought, no common attachment. They saw that his 
step was feeble, and that time had taken from him 
somewhat of manhood's glory ; but they remembered 
that he had grown old in their service, that his eye 
had become dim, while he cared for their souls, and 
every infirmity was a new bond of sympathy. If there 
were any of the young, who might have taken pride 
in a modern preacher, one less prolix, or more after 
the fashion of the day, they checked the thought ere it 
was spoken, for they had learned to venerate their 
faithful pastor, from the patriarchs who had gone to 
rest. Little children imitated their parents, and gath- 
ered around him, treasuring all he said to them, and 
the love that thus came down from other generations, 
seemed not to have decayed at the root, or to have 
ceased from fruit-bearing. 

The intermission between the services was short, 



106 INTERMISSION OF DIVINE SERVICE. 

as most of the congregation, coming from quite a dis- 
tance, did not return home at noon. Their horses 
were sheltered by sheds, constructed for that purpose, 
while they, seated in groups, amid clumps of lofty forest 
trees, partook such refreshments as they had brought 
for the occasion. 

On the banks of a transparent, winding stream, we 
had our coach-cushions spread, and enjoyed the quiet- 
ness of the hour. It was pleasant to see families gath- 
ering together, with their healthful children, upon the 
green turf, beneath canopies of shade. 

In an interesting group near us, the hoary grandsire, 
with lifted hands, besought the Divine blessing on their 
simple repast. Here and there, the young walked by 
themselves, on the margin of the fair stream, but there 
seemed in their deportment or conversation nothing 
unworthy of the consecrated day. We returned home 
from the little Village Church cheered, and I hope 
edified by its devotion, and the beautiful and time- 
tried love of the white-haired shepherd and his con- 
fiding flock. 

It would seem that the religious sentiment was in- 
digenous to an agricultural people. The formality 
and coldness of fashionable life do not check its as- 
pirings, or absorb its nutriment. They have fewer 
temptations to those immoralities which stamp it with 
hypocrisy ; while habitual toil restrains the effervescence 
of the spirit, and chastises its hurtful imaginings. 
Their business is among His works, and with Him 



AGRICULTURAL LIFE. 107 

who deals the sunbeam and the shower, and without 
whose smile their harvest-hope is vain. 

The patience, and prudence, and simplicity of their 
mode of life apparently involves some preparatory dis- 
cipline for the ritual of the lowly Redeemer. Every 
season has in itself some work or forethought for the 
comfort of another season, so that the year brings no 
period in which they can rest with pride on the agency 
of second causes, and forget their reliance on the 
Supreme. They might say with an old writer, " when 
the tulip fades we must shear our sheep for the win- 
ter," and when the corn ripens we select our seeds for 
the spring-furrow. The toils of the whole year are as 
a dial-plate, pointing the thoughtful mind to Him who 
has promised, that " summer and winter, and seed- 
time and harvest, shall not cease." 

The contentment of a life of agriculture, with 
moderate gains, and its freedom from the restless vis- 
ions of sudden, unlaborious accumulation, are both a 
protection to its purity, and a positive wealth. An 
emphatic writer has said, " The herdsman in his clay 
shealing, where his very cow and dog are friends to 
him, not a falling stream but carries memories for 
him, not a mountain but nods old recognition, 
his life all encircled as in a blessed mother's arms, — 
is it poorer than the man's with ass-loads of yellow 
metal 1 " 

If there are truly, as there would appear to be, ten- 
dencies in a life of agriculture to the principles and 



108 BENEFITS OF AGRICULTURE. 



practice of piety, we may well rejoice in the immense 
expanse of land which our country offers for this pro- 
fession, and echo the sentiment of the bard of Rydal- 

Mount : — 

" Praise to the sturdy spade, 
And patient plough, and shepherd's simple crook." 



FUNERAL AT NAZARETH. 109 



FUNERAL AT NAZARETH, 

IN PENNSYLVANIA. 

The Sabbath summer-sun declined 
To its bright, western goal, 

And o'er the green, Moravian vales 
Serene enchantment stole. 

'T would seem as if the holy rest 
Of heaven's anointed hour, 

Here found response in every breast, 
And breathed from every flower. 

Then slowly from the house of God 
Came forth a funeral train. 

And with a measured movement trod 
Along the velvet plain. 

The little coffin of a babe 
Borne in the midst was seen, 

While village children, two and two, 
Walked near, with serious mien. 



110 FUNERAL AT NAZARETH. 



Beside the church-yard gate they paused, 

And woke an anthem's thrill, 
While flutes and clarions mingled soft 

With music's perfect skill. 

Methought it tenderly implored, 

Though not a word was said, 
Room for another guest to swell 

The assembly of the dead. 

Then through the unclosing gate they passed. 

And up the hillock wound, 
Where peaceful slept their kindred clay 

In consecrated ground. 

Nor weed, nor straw, nor mouldering leaf 

Defaced their sacred bed. 
But tireless care, the chosen spot 

With Nature's beauty spread. 

Rich evergreens, and willows fair 

In graceful ranks had grown, 
And thickly planted flowerets clasped 

Each horizontal stone. 

And then the reverent Pastor read, 

As mid the graves he trod, 
In the deep German's solemn lore, 

Words from the Book of God. 



FUNERAL AT NAZARETH. Ill 

" I am the resurrection, saith 
The Lord, who life can give, 
And whosoe'er on me believes. 
Though he were dead, shall live." 

Beside the narrow pit they stood, 

Grooved mid the verdure deep, 
And while the children bent to see 

Where the fair babe should sleep, — 

Forth burst a glorious triumph-strain, 

As if from heaven it prest. 
The welcome of the seraph-train 

To some accepted guest : — 

The welcome of the harps that praise 

Jehovah, night and day, 
To one that early 'scaped the snares 

Of sinful, mortal clay. 

Faith stood among the fragrant flowers 

That decked the burial-sod, 
And cheerful gave the new-born soul 

Back to its Father, God. 

While Music, with her angel-voice 

So quelled affliction's tide. 
That even upon the parent's cheek 

The starting tear was dried. 



112 FUNERAL AT NAZARETH. 

So, wrapped in melody and love, 
That infant form was laid, 

Like sculptured marble, cold and pure, 
Within the hallowed shade. 

And while the parting summer-sun 

Sent forth a blessed ray. 
They smoothed its little pillowed turf, 

And calmly went their way. 

Yet oft shall tender Memory touch 
With light that never fails. 

That simple funeral scene, amid 
The green Moravian vales. 



The settlements of Bethlehem and Nazareth, in 
Pennsylvania, inhabited by the Moravians, are truly 
interesting to strangers. They exhibit peculiar indi- 
cations of order, industry, and comfort, and the ex- 
panse of ten miles which divides them, is marked by 
neat and careful cultivation. The beauty of the groves 
was particularly obvious, kept free from underwood, 
and carpeted with fresh, clean turf, scarcely defaced 
by a scattered leaf or spray. 

The banks of the Lehigh, at Bethlehem, are over- 
shadowed by large, lofty, umbrageous trees, which add 
much to the romantic character of the landscape. We 
visited the school for girls, which enjoyed a high rep- 



MORAVIAN SCHOOLS. 113 



utation in early times, when our country could boast 
but few institutions for the education of females. The 
different classes seemed in perfect order, and the 
countenances of the pupils evinced contentment and 
happiness. The gardens belonging to the establish- 
ment, which are pleasantly laid out, and decorated 
with fountains, were shown us, by an ancient guide, 
who said he had in youth been a soldier under Fred- 
erick the Great. The contrast must be strong indeed, 
between the drill of a military despot, and the blessed 
lore of the florist. 

The spacious church at Bethlehem, is adorned with 
the portraits of many missionaries; the sect of Mora- 
vians having very early entered the field of missionary 
labor, and wrought there with a tireless and self-de- 
nying zeal. 

Our approach to Nazareth, which was from the 
beautiful region of Wyoming, through Bear-Creek, 
Stoddardsville, &c., was rendered striking by passing 
at the hour of sunset the base of a lofty mountain, 
from whose empurpled summit, rays of crimson and 
gold went streaming up the horizon in prolonged and 
maornificent coruscations. Nazareth has a school for 
boys, which was well filled, and maintained a good rep- 
utation. Its members seemed to enjoy that health of 
body, and those salubrious moral influences, without 
which the intellectual gains of the young are but a 
mockery. 

Nazareth is less populous than Bethlehem, and 
8 



114 HABITS OF THE MORAVIANS. 

from its more secluded situation, has better pre- 
served those primitive and distinguishing character- 
istics, which it is so pleasant to study in a state of 
society, where goodness and piety prevail. 

Among the more prominent of these, were simpli- 
city of manners, uniformity in the style of building, 
furniture, and apparel, and a happy ignorance of those 
fashions and ceremonies, which levy so great a tax upon 
a short life. Their attention to children was also con- 
spicuous; not an indulgence of their appetites, or 
wayward fancies, but a patience of explanation, and 
a kind care to interest them in whatever appertains to 
the welfare of this life, or the next. 

It would seem to be the habit of their pastors, some- 
times to adapt a portion of their discourses peculiarly 
to them. A sermon on the miracle of our Saviour 
at the Lake of Gennesaret, opened with a graphic 
description of that Lake, the extent of its waters, and 
the scenery of the Holy Land by which it was encom- 
passed, mingled with simplified reflections, calculated 
to attract and instruct the young mind. The children 
of the congregation, who sat together, were seen lifting 
their bright faces to the speaker, with delighted atten- 
tion. They knew this portion was for them, and 
received it as the tender plant inhales the dew-drop. 

At the funeral obsequies, which have been imper- 
fectly delineated in the preceding poem, the dead babe 
was borne into the church, and the greater part of the 
afternoon address was to the little ones who gathered 



MUSIC AT THE GRAVE. 115 

around. They listened earnestly to the clergyman, as 
to a father, while he taught them, in their native Ger- 
man, of the happy return of infancy to the arms of its 
Redeemer. 

The sacred and soul-stirring music with which this 
interment was attended, it would be in vain to attempt 
to describe. It was produced by a few of the young 
men of the village, who, bearing different instruments 
in perfect accord, walked at the head of the proces- 
sion. They breathed the very soul of that melody, 
which mingling with the tender solemnity of the 
scene, raised the thoughts to Heaven. Some writer 
has said of a troubled realm, that " its national music 
lulled to sleep all its wrathful passions." So those 
solemn and harmonious strains seemed to charm away 
that bitterness of grief which is wont to linger round 
the grave where affection deposits its treasures. 

After the burial, the people passed in the same 
order in which they had followed the little one to its 
last repose, through a public garden adorned with 
shrubbery and flowers, adjoining the cemetery. The 
countenances of the children were sweet and serious, 
as those who had not associated the death of a Chris- 
tian babe with dread or terror. I thought the lesson 
they had learned there, impressed as it was by the 
words of inspiration, and the influence of music, 
would not soon be forgotten. Might we not also, our- 
selves, have received one, worthy of being remem- 
bered, how the burial of infant innocence might be 



116 CHRISTIAN LOVE. 



made beautiful ? how even parental sorrow might as- 
pire to the sublime faith of that " cheerful giver, whom 
Godloveth?" 

A kind and gentle spirit is manifested by the Mo- 
ravians, in their intercourse with each other, and with 
differing denominations of Christians. The time thus 
saved from conflicts about shades of opinion, they 
have wisely spent in giving a deeper growth to that 
charity which the Gospel requires. Perhaps they 
think with the philosopher, that " the true wealth of a 
man is the number of things that he loves and blesses, 
that he is loved and blessed by." 

But they have learned of a better Teacher, and 
seem well to have kept the test which He enjoined, — 
'' Hereby shall men know that ye are my disciples, 
if ye love one another." 



FALLEN FORESTS. 117 



FALLEN FORESTS. 



Man's warfare on the trees is terrible. 
He lifts his rude hut in the wilderness, 
And lo ! the loftiest trunks, that age on age 
Were nurtured to nobility, and bore 
Their summer coronets so gloriously, 
Fall with a thunder-sound, to rise no more. 
Hetoucheth flame unto them, and they lie 
A blackened wreck, their tracery and wealth 
Of sky-fed emerald, madly spent to feed 
An arch of brilliance for a single night. 
And scaring thence the wild deer and the fox. 
And the lithe squirrel from the nut-strewn home, 
So long enjoyed. 

He lifts his puny arm, 
And every echo of the axe doth hew 
The iron heart of centuries away. 
He entereth boldly to the solemn groves 
On whose green altar-tops, since time was young, 
The winged birds have poured their incense strain 
Of praise and love, within whose mighty nave 
The wearied cattle from a thousand hills 



118 FALLEN FORESTS. 



Have found their shelter mid the heat of day ; 
Perchance, in their mute worship pleasing Him 
Who careth for the meanest He hath made. 
I said he entereth to the sacred groves 
Where Nature in her beauty bends to God, 
Andlol their temple-arch is desecrate; 
Sinks the sweet hymn, the ancient ritual fades, 
And uptorn roots, and prostrate columns mark 
The invader's footsteps. 

Silent years roll on. 
His babes are men. His ant-heap dwelling grows 
Too narrow, for his hand hath gotten wealth. 
He builds a stately mansion, but it stands 
Unblessed by trees. He smote them recklessly, 
When their green arms were round him, as a guard 
Of tutelary deities, and feels 
Their maledictions, now the burning noon 
Maketh his spirit faint. With anxious care 
He casteth acorns in the earth, and woos 
Sunbeam and rain ; he planteth the young shoot. 
And props it from the storm, but neither he. 
Nor yet his children's children, shall behold 
What he hath swept away. 

Methinks 't were well. 
Not as a spoiler or a thief, to roam 
O'er Nature's bosom, that sweet, gentle nurse 
Who loveth us, and spreads a sheltering couch 
When our brief task is o'er. On that green mound 
Affection's hand may set the willow-tree. 



FALLEN FORESTS. Il9 



Or train the cypress, and let none profane 
Her pious care. 

Oh Father ! grant us grace 
In all life's toils, so, with a steadfast hand 
Evil and good to poise, as not to mark 
Our way with wrecks, nor when the sands of time 
Run low, with saddened eye the past survey. 
And mourn the rashness time can ne'er restore. 



No one nurtured in New England, amid the vene- 
ration of fine trees, can traverse the more recently 
settled regions of New York, and especially the far 
Western States, without bemoaning the recklessness 
with which the ancient glory of the forest is sacrificed. 
Hills and vales are seen covered with stately and im- 
mense trunks, blackened with flame, and smitten down 
in every form and variety of misery. They lie like 
soldiers, when the battle is done, in the waters, among 
the ashes, wounded, beheaded, denuded of their limbs, 
their exhumed roots, like chevaux de frise^ glaring on 
the astonished eye. 

The roof of the smallest log-hut, or shanty, seems 
the signal of extinction to the most sacred and solemn 
groves ; and Cromwell advanced not more surely from 
Naseby to the throne, than the axe-armed settler to 
the destruction of the kingly trees of Heaven's anoint- 
ing. 

The extirpation of the thicket from the field where 



120 TREES. 



the bread for his household must grow, is of course a 
work of necessity. But a far-reaching mind will spare 
here and there, the time-honored tree, to protect the 
future mansion from the rays of the noon-day sun. 

The wild elephant, when death approaches, moves 
slowly to seek the shadow of lofty trees, and there 
resicrns his breath. Intelligent man, like the most 
sagacious of animals, might surely spare a few, as a 
shelter for his weary head, and a patrimony for an 
unborn race. He might save, here and there, one 
solitary witness to His goodness, who causeth those 
o-lorious columns of verdure to rise nearer and nearer 

to 

to His heaven, while the heads of so many generations 
of men descend to the dust from whence they were 
at first taken. 

It seems almost a wickedness, wantonly to smite 
down a vigorous, healthful tree. It was of God's plant- 
ing, in its veins are circulating the life which He has 
given. Its green and mighty arch is full of his beauty 
and power. It has borne winter and tempest without 
repining. Spring has duly remembered to awaken it 
from adversity, and to whisper that the " time of the 
singing of birds hath come." War may have swept 
away armies, revolution overturned thrones, time en- 
gulphed whole races of men, but there it stood un- 
moved, unfaded, a chronicler of history, a benefactor 
to the traveller, a monument of the goodness of the 
Almighty. 

Were our new settlers more frequently men of taste. 



PLANTING. 121 



this indiscriminate warfare upon the trees would be 
mitigated. They would realize how the lofty oak, 
beech, or sycamore would adorn the dwelling which 
increased wealth might enable them to erect, or spread 
a blessed guardianship over the crystal stream, where 
the stranger might drink, and rest, and thank God. 

The reverence of our ancestors in England for trees, 
is well known. It is not uncommon in some of their 
parks, to observe by a clump of fine trees, a stone 
monument, recording when, and by whom it was 
planted ; thus coupling the name of the founder with 
those masses of umbrageous foliage, which deepen as 
ages pass by. 

Sir Walter Scott speaks of the " exquisite delight 
of planting trees." He goes on to say, that '* there 
is no art, or occupation so full of past, present, and 
future enjoyment." How great the delight of cutting 
them down may be, is best known to those who most 
widely deal in such extermination. Immense numbers 
must be needed for the wants of our increasing country ; 
and no blame should be uttered, except for their care- 
less and wanton destruction. Still, it seems an indul- 
gence to quote further on this subject from the phi- 
lanthropist before named, who so loved to adorn the 
face of nature. 

" I look back," he says, " to the time when on this 
part of my grounds, there was not a single tree. Now I 
look around and see thousands of trees growing up, 
all of which have received my personal attention. I 



122 BUFFALO. 



remember, five years ago, looking forward with the 
most delighted expectation to this very hour, and as each 
year passed, the pleasure of the expectation has gone 
on increasing. I do the same now ; I anticipate what 
this plantation, and that, will probably become, if 
taken care of, and there is no spot of which I do not 
watch the progress. Unlike building, or any similar 
pursuit, this pleasure has no end, and is never inter- 
rupted; but goes on, from day to day, from year to 
year, with perpetually augmenting interest." 

In striking contrast with what has seemed the too 
entire extinction of some of the lovely works of crea- 
tion, are the rapid growth and prosperity of the works 
of man, in some of the new sections of our country. 
Especially at Buffalo, which has a population of 26,000, 
and all the marks of an enterprising, commercial city, 
it is difficult to realize that not a single house was 
left standing in 1813, at its conflagration, during our 
last war with England. Its spacious warehouses, 
hotels, and public buildings, and the numerous float- 
ing-palaces employed in the regular steam-navigation 
of the lakes, would naturally betoken a longer date. 

In the streets were many of the aborigines, the 
Seneca and Tuscarora tribes residing near, and that 
of the Oneidas, not far distant. We were led to notice 
the erect, and well-proportioned forms of the females, 
not bending under any burden, and heeding that of 
their children no more than the weight of the gossa- 
mer. 



INDIAN INFANTS. 123 



We saw the Chief of the Senecas, the successor of 
Red-Jacket, a tall man, with a very bright eye. Me- 
thought his countenance expressed a cunning and 
adroitness, the fruit of intercourse with the whites, 
rather than that Roman dignity and taciturnity, which 
of old marked the rulers of the forest, or that tendency 
to sarcastic eloquence, which distinguished his imme- 
diate predecessor. 

While in the vicinity of the Indian villages, num- 
bers of their females were seen at the different stop- 
ping-places on the railroad, offering for sale their 
neatly made articles of bark and bead-work. Occa- 
sionally they have with them their young infants, bound 
flat upon a board, and incapable of motion except in a 
very limited degree. They seemed fond of covering 
them with embroidered mantles, clasped in front with 
gilded or plated studs and buttons. One of these 
black-eyed babies was taken through the car-window, 
and we could not but admire its plump cheeks and 
smiling face, apparently more full of health and con- 
tentment than many of those babes whose nurture is 
made an unceasing labor both to parents and nurses. 
A passenger, in paying for some articles purchased of 
the mother, offered more money, and inquired what 
sum would be demanded for the child. At first, the 
idea was not fully comprehended. But when it was, 
all the sang-froid that the race so often affect, vanished 
like snow before the sun, and with a wild exclamation 
in her native tongue, the dark-browed mother rushed 



124 ROCHESTER AND AUBURN. 



into the cars, stretching out her arms to reclaim her 

treasure. 

Rochester is a pleasant city of rapid growth and 
extensive resources. Its churches are fine, and it has 
many handsome private residences. The Falls of the 
Genesee River are here well worth visiting. The 
waters are precipitated from a height of nearly one 
hundred feet, in a volume of much grace and ma- 
jesty. 

Auburn stands on the outlet of the Owasco Lake, 
a stream of considerable size and power. The Lake 
itself, a few miles from the village, like the numerous 
similar bodies of water that diversify the surrounding 
region, is quite picturesque. The most imposing 
edifice here, is the castellated pile of the State prison, 
which induced some sad reflections on the mass of 
human misery which had been, and still is concentra- 
ted within its walls. It is built of granite, occupies 
more than sixteen acres, and is surrounded by a solid 
wall of stone, forty feet in height. The front of the 
principal building is two hundred and seventy-six feet, 
and the extent of the wings more than four hundred. 
In the latter are work-shops for various trades ; in the 
cupola, an alarm bell ; and on the walls, armed senti- 
nels stationed night and day, to shoot down any who 
might attempt escape. Within these precincts, be- 
tween seven and eight hundred convicts are receiving 
the punishment of their offences. 

How many of these were swept away by sudden 



CRIMINALS. 125 



temptation, and without premeditated purpose of 
crime ? how many from ignorance 1 how many for 
want of a friendly hand, an encouraging word to aid 
their flight from evil 1 how many for the absence of 
those checks and motives, which from childhood have 
been enforced upon us ? Human justice cannot take 
cognizance of all these unexplained causes, and sha- 
dowy palliations, which are bound up with secret, 
unspoken thought. They are the province alone of 
Him who " weigheth the spirits." 

Yet we know that these men on whom society has 
set its seal of reprobation, had once a mother to whom 
their infancy was dear ; who would have shuddered 
with agony, had the vision of a felon's cell risen up 
between her and the cradle whose quiet slumber she 
watched. Under the influence of such thoughts, it is 
peculiarly painful to see the abject countenances of 
the prisoners, and to imagine that you trace in them 
a destitution of those hopes and feelings, which might 
brighten their period of suflfering, with the hope of 
reformation. 

A great proportion of them are foreigners. The 
poverty and vices of an Older World, precipitate them- 
selves upon the New, with a fearful freedom. To 
furnish a poor-house for the decrepit of other realms, 
might be accomplished in our broad land of plenty ; 
but to be a Botany Bay for their criminals, is a more 
revolting and perilous office. Could our own super- 
flux of virtue be relied on to neutralize this mass of 



126 SYRACUSE AND CANADAIGUA. 

evil, there were less to regret. But to our own ele- 
ments of internal danger, the thronged highway of the 
Atlantic is continually adding such materials as fer- 
ment in mobs, and might explode in revolutions. As 
the scape-goat went forth into the wilderness, bearing 
upon his head the sins of others, — God grant us 
grace, so to sustain these burdens and our own infir- 
mities, as not to make shipwreck at last of our integri- 
ty, and stand forth at last a beacon among the nations. 

There are so many interesting points in this region 
of country, that it is difficult either to select for de- 
scription, or to describe satisfactorily. Everything 
about Syracuse betokens vigor and enterprise. The 
saline springs which supply manufactories of salt, are 
of inexhaustible resource. From the observatory of 
its spacious and well-kept hotel, we saw, lighted up by 
a glorious sunset, a fine, extensive prospect, in which 
the Onondaga Lake was a prominent and beautiful 
feature. 

Canadaigua, on a lake of the same name, has a 
a great proportion of well-situated and stately edifices; 
and the beauty of Geneva, on the Seneca Lake, with 
terraced gardens, sloping down to the mirrored waters, 
is acknowledged by all visitants. The course taken 
by the railroad is not often favorable to the disclosure 
of the charms of a fine country. This is peculiarly 
the case with regard to the two last-named places. An 
opportunity of exploring their scenery more intimately, 
was given by the kindness of some esteemed friends, 



GENEVA AND ITHACA. 127 

several years before the fire-horse had found his way 
thither. A ride on the green margin of Seneca Lake, 
just as the sun in rich robes of purple and gold went 
to his rest, and the full, queenly moon came forth, 
will never be forgotten. Over this noble sheet of 
water, which the windows of our Hotel commanded, 
the brilliant, tremulous moon-beams diffused a sort of 
enchantment, which long detained us to gaze and to 
admire. Suddenly, over the pure expanse glided the 
most graceful little boat, lifting its measured oars 
like wings of the sea-bird, and balancing itself as a 
thing of life ; while, with proud velocity, a steamer 
passed it by, vomiting smoke and cinders like a sup- 
pressed volcano ; the Ebal and the Gerizzim of the 
silver Lake. 

A sail down the Cayuga to Ithaca, furnishes a de- 
lightful little voyage of between forty and fifty miles. 
The fertility of the surrounding shores, the verdure of 
the groves, the rural quietness of the mansions occa- 
sionally peeping through embowering shades, the 
beauty of the interspersed settlements, and the influ- 
ence of the agreeable movement over the bosom of 
the clear lake, were soothing both to the eye and to 
the heart. The Cayuga has, in some places, the 
depth of one thousand feet, is never frozen, and proli- 
fic in fine fish, among which are the salmon trout, 
occasionally weighing thirty pounds. 

The entrance to the sweet village of Ithaca, is ren- 
dered romantic by a graceful cascade, which starts 



128 LUNATIC ASYLUM. 



forth suddenly as if to give you welcome. It is formed 
by the precipitation of Fall Creek, over a prominent 
and steep rock. A cataract of more power exists in 
the vicinity, and should always be visited by strangers. 
Its approach is through an excavation in the form of 
a tunnel, upon a causeway of boards, over deep, black 
waters, where one imagines there may be some peril. 
This feeling probably heightens the effect of the scene, 
when once more emerging into light, the bold, beauti- 
ful torrent bursts upon you, making successive leaps 
of great height, while the comparatively small quan- 
tity of water causes it to assume a flaky, feathery 
lightness, which adds to its peculiar beauty. 

Utica exhibits undoubted marks of opulence and 
prosperity. One of its most conspicuous edifices is 
the State Lunatic Asylum. Its fine doric portico, 
and magnificent front of five hundred and fifty feet 
are of hammered stone, and were completed in 1842. 
With its various and well arranged offices and appen- 
dages, it is sufficient for the comfortable and even lux- 
urious accommodation of several hundred patients. 
Attached to it are gardens, and a farm of one hun- 
dred and forty acres, where healthful exercise may be 
obtained by those able and disposed to seek it. A 
library and schools have been established, and music 
and a green-house are among the pleasures here pro- 
vided for the diseased mind. This munificent endow- 
ment and benevolent sympathy on the part of New 
York, to one of the saddest forms of suffering human- 



SCARE-CROWS. 129 



ity, is a noble example to her sister States, and to the 
world. 

The scenery of Little Falls, is strikingly wild and 
fascinating. Rocks, woods, and waters are thrown 
together, as if to form a miniature of Switzerland. 
One would like long to linger in such a region. A 
feeder of the great western canal is here taken 
over the Mohawk, by an aqueduct of admirable 
construction. The Mohawk flows on, often studded 
with islets like emeralds, through a valley of extreme 
fertility. Here the reaper seems to wrestle with the 
bearded wheat, which looks at him, eye to eye, as he 
does his fatal office. The rich, alluvial region of 
German Flats, is peculiarly beautiful at the ripening 
harvest. 

At Fonda and Johnstown and their vicinity, we 
noticed the corn-fields in early summer, to abound in 
a most ingenious variety of scare-crows. Something 
of the kind is often seen in New England among 
planted fields, or loaded cherry trees, but not worthy 
to be compared with these in device or execution. 
Here were parti-colored pennons, broad white flags 
and banners, long ropes hung with bright tin filings, 
and braided wisps of straw, flapping in every breeze ; 
stuffed boys, with one foot raised as in the act of 
ascension ; men in full vigor, brandishing the sem- 
blance of a fowling-piece, or some other non-descript 
weapons ; aged sires, with uplifted brow, in an attitude 
9 



130 LOCKPORT. 



of supplication. Surely some incipient Chantry must 
ennoble this region, if not, 

" Some village Hampden, who with dauntless breast 
The little tyrant of his fields withstood." 

Yet all this effort and waste of genius, was only to 
oppose the gastronomic propensities of the crows. 
But the worst of it was, those black-gowned people 
seemed to fly hither and thither to their heart's con- 
tent, to sit on the very heads of these same redoubta- 
ble effigies, and perhaps to make themselves merry 
with what was intended to give them so much alarm. 

At Lockport, the embankments, excavations, double 
ranges of locks, and magnificent mason-work, can- 
not be examined without wonder at the intellect 
that devised, and the force that executed them. 
While there, we were induced to embark in a large 
packet-boat, and make trial for a hundred miles of the 
nature of canal-travelling. After the heat, dust, and 
rapidity of the rail-cars, the unique effect of gliding 
deliberately through cool, shady villages and cultivated 
farms was quite agreeable. We were constantly pass- 
ing other boats, many of which were laden with emi- 
grants, seeking new homes in the stranger-west. 

We often recognised the German countenance, the 
patient mother industriously plying her knitting- 
needles, surrounded by her little ones. The pleasure 
derived from a view of these objects, to which the genu- 
flections and prostrations at the frequent bridges, gave 



NIGHT IN A CANAL-BOAT. 131 

a seasonable sprinkling of bodily exercise, was pro- 
longed until the line of damp, evening exhalations 
following in our wake, warned us within. 

As our boat boasted the unusual dimensions of a 
hundred feet keel, we flattered ourselves that the ac- 
counts we had read and heard of their inconveniences 
as dormitories, might have been exaggerated. We 
continued zealously to praise all that admitted of being 
praised, in order to turn attention from the evils that 
we began to suspect might be coming upon us. But 
when the novelty of the out-door exhibition had en- 
tirely ceased, when the tables with refreshments and 
books were removed, and we, being requested to 
leave our seats, were huddled into the area of the 
boat, like sheep for the slaughter, there commenced 
a series of mystic preparations which stripped the 
scene of all its lingerings of romance. With amaze- 
ment we gazed upon the narrow shelves and ghosts of 
mattresses, ranged row above row, in fearfully close 
proximity, as if for baking in an oven ; hoping that 
our senses deceived us, and that we could not possibly 
be expected there to deposit our persons. The peo- 
ple of large proportions, and those expected to lodo-e 
directly under them, evinced great consternation, and 
with good reason. In short, though we had the atten- 
tions of a kindly-disposed chambermaid, no descrip- 
tion of the discomforts of a close summer night in a 
crowded canal-boat, may be supposed to transcend the 
truth. I refer the uninitiated to a graphic delinea- 



132 TRAVELLING FOR PLEASURE. 



tion from the versatile pen of Mrs. Harriet Beecher 
Stowe, in one of our Annuals, and advise every trav- 
eller for pleasure, to decline a more experimental 
knowledge. 

After all, is there so much travelling for pleasure, 
or more correctly speaking, so much pleasure in trav- 
elling, as might at first appear ? Of the pursuit of 
health, the claims of business, or the acquisition of 
knowledge, as motives for either domestic or foreign 
excursion, I do not of course speak, but of that rest- 
less desire of change of place, sometimes common to 
the young, which leads to an aimless love of wander- 
ing, or a dissatisfaction with quiet, circumscribed 
duties, which is in our sex peculiarly unfortunate. To 
visit fine scenery, and points of high interest, is indeed 
a privilege, yet one not wholly free from drawback and 
disappointment. For myself, I am free to confess at 
my matronly years, when fatigue and disturbed rest 
are no longer trifles, the ruling idea in every lu- 
cubration, however pleasant, is that of getting home. 
And as the moralist Addison considered it the principal 
advantage of a female's learning to dance, that she 
might " sit still gracefully," so it would be well if one 
chief end of her excursions abroad, might be to enjoy 
home better, and to bring back an additional sunbeam 
or song of praise to its sanctuary. 



THE HOUSATONIC. 133 



THE HOUSATONIC 



Oh gentle River, winding free, 

Through realms of peace and liberty, 

Who that thy modest source hath seen, 

Yon shallow pool, mid thickets green, 

Would ere divine thy future course. 

When boldly swells thy current's force : — 

What countless wheels, with clamoring clash. 

Shall in thine eddies roll and dash. 

What spindles at thy will rebound. 

What looms in echoing domes resound. 

What ponderous bales the billows speed, 

Thine appetite for wealth to feed. 

As little dreams the village maid. 

Who half confiding, half afraid. 

Her daily task doth docile ply, 

Beneath the watchful mistress' eye. 

What added power her lot shall claim, 

When ripened to the matron dame. 

With vigorous arm, and fearless mien, 

The dairy's undisputed queen. 

In household care she leads the way, 

And trains her children to obey. 



134 THE HOUSATONIC. 



Behold! what beauteous regions spread, 
Old Greylock shakes his ancient head, 
And forests nod with solemn sweep, 
And hamlets through their vistas peep. 
See Dalton, with her waving crown. 
Beneath the hills sit graceful down, 
And Hinsdale twine in meshes strong. 
The white fleece nursed her folds among, 
And Stockbridge o'er her marble bent, 
Prepare the enduring monument. 
And Becket's rocks whence streamlets flow, 
And Chester's dells where laurels glow. 
Whose lustrous leaf and radiant spire. 
We fain had lingered to admire, 
Or cull the iris deeply blue, 
Or water-lily bright with dew. 
Or rich wild rose, that freely cast 
Its treasures round us as we past. 
And seemed to reach its clustering bloom 
And woo us with a fresh perfume. 

But swift our mystic courser went. 

His dauntless spirit fiercely bent 

The goal to reach, nor slack his speed 

The lesson of a flower to heed. 

On, on he flew, nor paused to lave 

His hot lip in the cooling wave. 

The might of thousand steeds that shun 

The lasso 'neath La Plata's sun. 



Within his iron heai:t comprest, 
While strangely from his heaving breast, 
The streams of breath, in sparkles dire, 
Sprinkled old Midnight's robe with fire. 
His sharp, shrill neigh, with terror fills 
The cattle on a thousand hills, 
As mid their fragrant food they spy 
This wingless monster straining by. 
Whose brazen nerves and boiling veins 
Propel him o'er the lessening plains. 

* 

While we, who born in times of old, 
When travel from her note-book told 
Of rural charms, and lambs that play, 
And wild flowers treasured on the way, 
We, who in earlier days were fain 
To weave the poet's idle strain, 
And gather from the landscape fair 
Such thoughts as angels scattered there, 
Now ill at ease, with swimming eye. 
Go where the fire-horse wills to fly. 

Yet thou, sweet stream, whose devious way. 

Unconscious woke this simple lay, 

We would not quite, in giddy strife. 

Forget the moral of thy life. 

Thy shaded childhood, meekly fair, 

Thy course mature of useful care. 



136 THE HOUSATONIC. 



Thy secret deeds of bounteous zeal, 
Which laden field and grove reveal ; 
The peaceful smile, when all is o'er. 
With which, from earth's delusive shore. 
Thou to the unfathomed sea dost glide, 
And mingle with its mighty tide. 



There seems always a deep interest in exploring the 
source of a river. It is so wonderful to perceive, how 
from a noteless fountain, or a shallow brook, that broad 
bold stream should spring, on which navies ride. A 
fullness of thought springs up, as on visiting the birth- 
place of an illustrious man ; not one who is remem- 
bered by blood shed upon the earth, but by deeds of 
benevolence, that cannot die. Doubtless many of us 
remember amid the studies of our childhood, the pleas- 
ure with which we read Rollin's description of the two 
little fountains whence the Nile emanated, which from 
their brighness, and circular form, were designated as 
the *' eyes of the Nile." 

A respected friend once told me with what delight 
he pressed his foot upon the slender source of the 
Danube. A strange, wild-eyed guide accompanied 
him to the solitary ravine. To the enquiry what he 
should give him for this service, fixing on him a 
searching glance which seemed to say, it was in his 
power in that secluded spot to demand what he chose, 
he replied solemnly in his native German, " What- 
ever God shall put it into your heart to give." 



BERKSHIRE. 



137 



In entering Massachusetts by the western railroad, 
you pass the first tributary brooklet to the Housatonic, 
then the little pond which is called its source, and 
then crossing and recrossing, follow for some time the 
beautiful course of its broader waters. 

Miss Sedgwick, in her interesting essay on her na- 
tive Berkshire, says : — " We have entered it by a 
road far superior to the Appian Way. On every side 
are rich vallies, and smiling hill-sides, and deep set in 
their hollows lovely lakes sparkle like gems. From 
one of these, a modest sheet of water in Lanesborough, 
flows out the Housatonic, the minister of God's boun- 
ty, bringing to the meadows along its course, a yeasty 
renewal of fertility, and the ever-changing, ever-pres- 
ent beauty, that marks God's choicest works. It is 
the most judicious of rivers ; like a discreet, rural 
beauty, it bears its burdens and does its work out of 
sight ; its water privileges for mills, furnaces, and fac- 
tories, are aside from the villages. When it comes 
near to them, as in Stockbridge, it lingers like a lover, 
turns and returns, and when fairly off, flies past rolling 
wheels, and dinning factories, till reaching the lovely 
meadows of Harrington, it again disports itself at 
leisure." 

In the territory of Connecticut, it assumes more of 
the character of dignity and power, and especially at 
Derby, after its junction with the Naugatuck, mingles 
with and diversifies much bold and romantic scenery. 

In approaching the dividing line between the States 



138 PITTSFIELD ELM. 



of New York and Massachusetts, the Shaker villages 
are seen at a distance, with the green hills of Leba- 
non, cultivated to their very summits. Slatestone, 
and a kind of gneiss, unusually brilliant with mica, 
which had prevailed, soon yielded to limestone ranges, 
enriched with that fine marble which distinguishes 
Richmond and Stockbridge. Iron, marble, and lime, 
woods, rocks, and waters, are among the riches of this 
wildly variegated country. 

Pittsfield is a fine town, on a green vale, running 
between two mountain ranges. In the centre of its 
public square, which comprises about four acres, is a 
magnificent elm, which the earliest settlers had the 
taste and wisdom to spare, when the surrounding for- 
ests were shorn. Its trunk rises ninety feet before the 
branches strike out, and its head towers upward to the 
height of one hundred and twenty-six feet. It is evi- 
dently of great antiquity, and exhibits symptoms of 
decay. 

Dalton, seated among the hills, looked sweetly pleas- 
ant, as if it might extend to the weary-hearted an in- 
vitation to share its quiet retreat, and steal from the 
bustle of an unsatisfying world. The road, which for 
some time kept the level of the Housatonic, and then 
that of the swift, stone-paved Westfield, both of which 
it had repeatedly crossed, took leave of these quiet 
companions, and began its ascent of eighty feet in a 
mile. This continued for about thirteen miles, — Wash- 
ington, on one of the spurs of the Green Mountains, 



TRAVELLING BY STEAM. 139 

being the height of land, from whence the descent is 
in the same ratio, for the same distance. 

Hinsdale, with its manufacturing zeal, and its per- 
petual clangor of loom and spindle, exhibited the 
blackened walls of a lofty factory, which the de- 
stroying flame had visited, and through which, 
methought, the whistling winds lectured on the insta- 
bility of wealth, the favorite deity of our times. The 
deep excavations for the railroad, made among the 
rocks at Becke't, awaken the surprise of every behold- 
er. The wild, bold hills, so bleak during the storms 
of winter, and the varied surface of Chester, were 
radiant with the most splendid specimens of the laurel. 
Varying from white, through every tint of pink, to an 
unusually decided red, it thrust its masses of rich 
efflorescence and dark lustrous foliage before us, as we 
hurried by, striving to remind us of the Maker. 

But the spirit of fire, to which we had intrusted 
ourselves, was intent only to surmount space. It could 
not tarry for us to toy with a flower, or to listen to any 
message that Nature might have for her children. 
While its continued agency must mark the character 
of a people with energy, and the consciousness of 
power, will it not have a tendency to diminish their 
perception of rural beauty, by abridging their opportu- 
nities to cultivate it? While to pass from point to 
point, with the speed of lightning, is the only aim 
of the traveller, a newspaper may as well beguile his 
thoughts as all the blended, and glorious charms of 
mountain, vale, and flood. 



140 THE lONIANS. 



" The lonians," said a classic writer, '' are silent, 
contemplative, recluse. Knowing that Nature will 
not deliver her oracles in the crowd, on the wing, or 
by the sound of a trumpet, they open their breasts to 
her in solitude, with the simplicity of children, they 
look earnestly in her face, and wait for a reply." 



PASSAGE UP THE CONNECTICUT. 141 



PASSAGE UP THE CONNECTICUT, 



FROM HARTFORD TO SPRINGFIELD. 



The summer-morn doth greet thee cheerily, 
Stream of my fathers. From the shaded dell 
Where in thy Highland cradle thou didst take 
The little water-cup so thankfully, 
From every nursing rill, on to the scene 
Of thy rejoicing bridal with the Sea, 
Where snowy sails from many a region, bear 
The nuptial dowry, thou hast held thy way, 
A comforter, and blessing. 

Full and fair 
Thou scatterest bounties o'er thy verdant banks. 
As thouD-h thou ne'er hadst known a time of need, 
Or penury. Yet I remember well 
When last I saw thee in adversity. 
Winter had chained thee long, and tardy Spring 
Shrank, as she whispering warned thy mighty heart 
To wake and free itself No trampled realm 
Came to its battle-hour, more valiantly. 
Thy prison doors were broken, at the rush 



142 PASSAGE UP THE CONNECTICUT. 

And hollow murmur from thy troubled depths ; 
As fettered Samson, with his shaven locks 
Crumbled the temple columns and o'erthrew 
Philistia's mocking lords. 

Block after block 
Of thick-ribb'd ice, disparted, and the shores 
Piled high with rugged masses, told how strong 
Thy struggle with the tyrant. Still in pain, 
And wearily, thou wrought'st thy toilsome way, 
Like one who hath a heavy work to do. 
Ere he may take his rest. 

I scarce can think 
Thou art the same, that now at liberty 
And in the fullness of thy wealth dost mark 
Thy course with benefactions. 

As we press . 
Upward, thy current, with its azure tint. 
Mottled by silver clouds, and fringed with green, 
In ripples, and in shadows multiform 
Flows on in beauty. Now and then a raft 
Of timber strongly bound, the sturdy growth, 
Of our far northern hills, comes drifting down, 
Shaping its lonely voyage ; or the boat 
That scorneth sail and oar, with flying wheel 
Furroweth thy startled flood. 

The bending trees 
Adjust their branches, by thy mirrored tide, 
As won our Mother from the crystal eye 
Of Eden's lake, the knowledge of her charms. 



PASSAGE UP THE CONNECTICUT. 143 

A blight is on the sycamores ! Yon grove 
That erst in healthful majesty aspired, 
Surceaseth from good works, and stretcheth out 
Unsightly, withered arms. From dripping rocks 
Cool, trickling waters bathe the moss-clad roots, 
The healing sunbeams woo them, the fond vine 
Creeps up, and clasps them in her clustering arms, 
Teaching them how to love, while at their feet 
The glowing Kalmia opes its waxen breast, 
As if in sympathy. But all in vain. 
Death worketh at their heart, and mid the embrace 
Of loving Nature, sullenly they stand 
A bare and blackened wreck. 

How sweet to orlide 
Along these winding shores, so richly green. 
Where mid his corn-clad fields the farmer toils, 
And village after village lifts its spire 
In freedom, and in plenty. 

Now we reach 
The '' Old Bay State," the mother of us all 
•Who in New England boast to have our birth, 
And look through storms of revolution, back 
To Plymouth Rock. 

Fair heritage she hath 
From mountain fastness, on to Ocean-shore, 
And groweth beautiful with age, and strong 
In her sons' strength. 

God bless her, and the realms 



144 SPRINGFIELD. 



That cluster round her border, and the streams 
That through her bosom flow, and most of all 
Thee, glorious River, o'er whose breast we sail, 
' This summer's day, and tune our idle song. 



Springfield is among the most beautiful towns in 
Massachusetts, full of activity and prosperity. It has 
many elegant private residences, and the depth of its 
summer-shades, and the grace of its lofty elms, 
the glory of New England, add much to its attrac- 
tions. Court Square, and the promenade in Chestnut 
Street, are resorts usually admired by visitants. 

It has a cemetery recently commenced, which 
evinces that good taste and reverent attention to the 
homes of the dead, which mark the progress of refine- 
ment in a Christian community. The young foliage 
waves gracefully, and the falling fountains with their 
crystal waters make a pleasant murmur around the 
beds of unbroken repose. 

In the ancient burying ground among many inter- 
esting inscriptions, is one, which seemed to us singu- 
larly expressive of attachment to a spiritual guide. 



i( 



In memory of the late Rev. Robert Breck, late pastor 
of the church of Christ, in this place, who died on the 23d 
of April, 1784, in the 71st year of his age, and the 49th 
of his ministry. This monument is erected by his affection- 
ate and grateful parishioners, in addition to that in their 
own breasts, to perpetuate the remembrance of his singular 



BLIGHTED SYCAMORES. 145 



worth, and long continued labors among them, in the ser- 
vice of their souls. 

He taught us how to live, and ah ! too high 
A price for knowledge, taught us how to die." 



The little voyage from Hartford to Springfield is 
sufficiently variegated to be agreeable. The steamers 
employed on this part of the river are exceedingly 
small, in order that their light draught of water may 
enable them to descend a succession of rapids. The 
ascending passage is performed by the agency of a 
canal and locks, and of course requires more time, so 
that the twenty-six miles, which divide the two cities, 
occupy four hours. It was, however, rendered com- 
paratively short, by the fair scenery of the shores, 
lighted up by a bright morning sun. 

Among the exuberant verdure and fertility, which 
summer diffuses over this region, we passed one or 
two melancholy copses of blighted sycamores. This 
fine tree, in many parts of our country, seems to have 
been smitten by a fatal epidemic. This sad exhibition 
of mortality among the trees, reminded me of the 
following powerful and eloquent description from a 
traveller, in the far west, of a dead forest in the Ore- 
gon Territory. 

" We had reached a current of bright, mountain 

wat^r, winding through a deep, narrow, grassy valley, 

that cleaves the granite hills of Oregon. The morn- 
10 



146 DEAD FOREST IN OREGON. 

ing was bitterly cold, though the 24th of August, and 
a pelting rain came down upon us, from the dark and 
comfortless sky. About midnight, we found it neces- 
sary to mount the ridge, and, with great labor, at 
length reached the summit. A scene here opened, 
such as we had never before conceived, and which, 
perhaps, it is quite impossible to convey in descrip- 
tion. A thick forest covered the mountain, half the 
trees standing, half of them prostrate, and every one 
dead. Not a particle of bark remained among all 
these ghostlike remnants of a gigantic, but now blast- 
ed and extinct vegetation. The huge rocks were 
swept bare of earth, by the violent winds from which 
this chain derives its name. Nothing met the eye in 
any direction, but naked granite and blasted trees. 
A feeling of intense awe chilled through our veins, 
and crept into our hearts, as we gazed upon a scene, 
that forced upon us a new and vast conception of 
desolation and sublimity. Tall pines, leafless, bark- 
less and branchless, stood in gaping clefts and fissures, 
pointing their spires towards the stormy sky, like 
ghostly figures upbraiding their destroyer. Many 
were pulpy v/ith rottenness, though still standing, up- 
held by the firm twining of their roots among the 
rocks. Those that had fallen, seemed as though they 
had crumbled in their descent, without a crush, so 
silent was everything, except the fierce winds, to which 
the white spectres appeared to be listening in desolate 
grandeur." 



CONNECTICUT RIVER. 147 

The beauty of the Connecticut River, as an inland 
stream, and as you journey along- its banks, upward 
towards its source, is far greater than where it ap- 
proaches its confluence with the sea. It glides in the 
gentlest, most patronizing manner among green vales, 
and quiet villages, seeming to enjoy the fertility and 
happiness which it dispenses. 

It may not be compared with its mightier neighbor, 
the Hudson, in depth or force of current, or majesty 
of mountain-shores. Yet its own characteristics of 
beauty satisfy, and are congenial to the people, among 
whom it flows : and justly may it be said, — 

" No peaceful skies o'er fairer vallies shine. 
Nor drinks the sea a lovelier wave than thine." 



148 THE HERMIT OF THE FALLS. 



THE HERMIT OF THE FALLS. 



It was the leafy month of June, 
And joyous Nature, all in tune, 

With wreathingr buds was drest, 
As toward Niagara's fearful side 

A youthful stranger prest ; 
His ruddy cheek was blanched with awe, 
And scarce he seemed his breath to draw, 

While bending o'er its brim. 
He marked its strong, unfathomed tide, 

And heard its thunder-hymn. 

His measured week too quickly fled. 
Another, and another sped, 
And soon the summer rose decayed, 
The moon of autumn sank in shade, 
Years filled their circle, brief and fair, 
Yet still the enthusiast lingered there. 

Till winter hurled its dart. 
For deeper round his soul was wove 
A mystic chain of quenchless love. 

That would not let him part. 



THE HERMIT OF THE FALLS. 149 

When darkest midnight veiled the sky, 
You 'd hear his hasting step go by, 
To gain the bridge beside the deep. 
That where its wildest torents leap 

Hung threadlike o'er the surge, 

Just there, upon its awful verge. 
His vigil hour to keep. 

And when the Moon, descending low, 

Hung on the flood that gleaming bow, 

Which it would seem some ancrel's hand 

With heaven's own pencil, tinged and spanned. 

Pure symbol of a Better Land, 

He, kneeling, poured in utterance free • 

The eloquence of ecstasy ; 

Though to his words no answer came. 

Save that One, Everlasting Name, 

Which since Creation's morning broke, 

Niagara's lip alone hath spoke. 

When wintry tempests shook the sky, 
And the rent pine-tree hurtled by, 
Unblenchinor mid the storm he stood, 
And marked sublime, the wrathful flood, 
While wrouorht the frost-kiuor fierce and drear. 
His palace mid those cliffs to rear. 
And strike the massy buttress strong, 
And pile his sleet the rocks among, 
And wasteful deck the branches bare 
With icy diamonds, rich and rare. 



150 THE HERMIT OF THE FALLS. 

Nor lacked the hermit's humble shed 
Such comforts as our natures ask 
To fit them for their daily task, 
The cheering fire, the peaceful bed. 
The simple meal in season spread : — 
While by the lone lamp's trembling light. 
As blazed the hearth-stone clear and bright. 

O'er Homer's page he hung, 
Or Maro's martial numbers scanned, 
For classic lore of many a land 

Flowed smoothly o'er his tongue. 
Oft with rapt eye, and skill profound, 
He woke the entrancing viol's sound. 

Or touched the sweet guitar, 
Since heavenly music deigned to dwell 
An inmate in his cloistered cell. 

As beams the solemn star 
All night, with meditative eyes, 
Where some lone rock-bound fountain lies. 

As through the groves with quiet tread, 
On his accustomed haunts he sped. 
The mother-thrush unstartled sung 
Her descant to her callow young. 
And fearless o'er his threshold prest 
The wanderer from the sparrow's nest ; 
The squirrel raised a sparkling eye. 
Nor from his kernel cared to fly 
As passed that gentle hermit by ; 



THE HERMIT OF THE FALLS. 151 

No timid creature shrank to meet 
His pensive glance, serenely sweet; 
From his own kind, alone, he sought 
The screen of solitary thought. 
Whether the world too harshly prest, 
Its iron o'er a yielding breast, 
Or taught his morbid youth to prove 
The pang of unrequited love. 
We know not, for he never said 
Aught of the life that erst he led. 

On Iris isle, a summer bower 

He twined with branch, and vine, and flower. 

And there he mused, on rustic seat, 

Unconscious of the noon-day heat, 

Or 'neath the crystal waters lay 

Luxuriant, in the swimmer's play. 

Yet once, the whelming flood grew strong, 
And bore him like a weed alonor. 
Though with convulsive grasp of pain, 
And heaving breast, he strove in vain, 
Then sinking 'neath the infuriate tide, 
Lone as he lived, the hermit died. 

On, by the rushing current swept. 
The lifeless corse its voyage kept, 
To where, in narrow gorge comprest, 
The whirling eddies never rest. 




But boil with wild tumultuous sway, 
The maelstrom of Niagara. 
And there, within that rocky bound, 
In swift gyrations round and round, 

Mysterious course it held, 
Now springing from the torrent hoarse, 
Now battlincr as with maniac force, 

To mortal strife compelled. 

Right fearful 'neath the moonbeam bright. 
It was to see that brow so white. 

And mark the ghastly dead 
Leap upward from his torture-bed, 

As if in passion-gust. 
And tossing wild with agony, 
To mock the omnipotent decree, 

Of dust to dust. 

At leno-th, where smoother waters flow, 

Emerging from the gulf below, 

The hapless youth they gained and bore, 

Sad to his own forsaken door : 

There watched his dog, with straining eye, 

And scarce would let the train pass by. 

Save that with instinct's rushing spell, 
Through the changed cheek's empurpled hue, 
And stiff and stony form, he knew 

The master he had loved so well. 



THE HERMIT OF THE FALLS. 153 



The kitten fair, whose graceful wile, 
So oft had won his musing smile. 
As round his slippered foot she played, 
Stretched on his vacant pillow laid. 
While strewed around, on board and chair. 

The last plucked flower, the book last read. 

The ready pen, the page outspread. 

The water-cruise, the unbroken bread, 
Revealed how sudden was the snare 

That swept him to the dead. 

And so he rests in foreign earth, 
Who drew mid Albion's vales his birth; 
Yet let no cynic phrase unkind 
Condemn that youth of gentle mind, 
Of shrinking nerve, and lonely heart, 
And lettered lore, and tuneful art. 

Who here his humble worship paid. 
In that most glorious temple-shrine. 
Where to the Majesty divine 

Nature her noblest altar made. 

No, blame him not, but praise the Power 
Who in the dear, domestic bower, 
Hath given you firmer strength to rear 
The plants of love, with toil and fear, 
The beam to meet, the blast to dare. 
And like a faithful soldier bear ; 



154 THE HERMIT OF THE FALLS. 



Still with sad heart his requiem pour, 
Amid the cataract's ceaseless roar, 
And bid one tear of pitying gloom 
Bedew that meek enthusiast's tomb. 



About fifteen years since, in the glow of early Sum- 
mer, a young stranger, of pleasing countenance and 
person, made his appearance at Niagara. It was at 
first conjectured that he might be an artist, as a large 
portfolio, with books and musical instruments, were 
observed among his baggage. He was deeply im- 
pressed by the majesty and sublimity of the Cataract, 
and its surrounding scenery, and expressed an inten- 
tion to remain a week, that he might examine it accu- 
rately. But the fascination which all minds of sensi- 
bility feel, in the presence of that glorious work of 
the Creator, grew strongly upon him, and he was heard 
to say, that six weeks were inadequate to become ac- 
quainted with its outlines. 

At the end of that period, he was still unable to 
tear himself away, and desired to *' build there a tab- 
ernacle," that he might indulge both in his love of 
solitary musings, and of nature's sublimity. He applied 
for a spot upon the island of the " Three Sisters," 
where he might construct a cottage after his own 
model, which comprised, among other peculiarities, 
isolation by means of a drawbridge. Circumstances 
forbidding a compliance with his request, he took up 



his residence in an old house upon Iris Island, which 
he rendered as comfortable as the state of the case 
would admit. Here he continued about twenty months, 
until the intrusion of a family interrupted his recluse 
habits. He then quietly withdrew, and reared for 
himself a less commodious shelter, near Prospect 
Point. His simple and favorite fare of bread and 
milk was readily purchased, and whenever he re- 
quired other food, he preferred to prepare it with his 
own hands. 

When bleak winter came, a cheerful fire of wood 
blazed upon his hearth, and by his evening lamp he 
beguiled the hours with the perusal of books in vari- 
ous languages, and with sweet music. It was almost 
surprising to hear, in such depth of solitude, the long- 
drawn, thrilling tones of the viol, or the softest 
melodies of the flute, gushing forth from that low- 
browed hut, or the guitar, breathing out so lightly, 
amid the rush and thunder of the never slumbering 
torrent. 

Yet, though the world of letters was familiar to his 
mind, and the living world to his observation, for he 
had travelled widely, both in his native Europe, and 
the East, he sought not association with mankind, to 
unfold, or to increase his stores of knowledge. Those 
who had heard him converse, spoke with surprise and 
admiration of his colloquial powers, his command of 
language, and the spirit of eloquence that flowed 
from his lips. But he seldom, and sparingly, admitted 



156 WINTER SCENERY. 



this intercourse, studiously avoiding society, though 
there seemed in his nature nothing of moroseness or 
misanthropy. On the contrary, he showed kindness 
to even the humblest animal. Birds instinctively 
learned it, and freely entered his dwelling, to receive 
from his hands, crumbs or seeds. 

But the absorbinor delight of his existence was 
communion with the mighty Niagara. Here, at every 
hour of the day or night, he might be seen, a fervent 
worshipper. At grey dawn, he went to visit it in 
its fleecy veil ; at high noon, he banqueted on the 
full splendor of its glory ; beneath the soft tinting of 
the lunar bow, he lingered, looking for the angel's 
wing, whose pencil had painted it; and at solemn 
midnight, he knelt soul-subdued, as on the footstool 
of Jehovah. Neither storms, nor the piercing cold of 
winter, prevented his visits to this great temple of his 
adoration. 

When the frozen mists, gathering upon the lofty 
trees, seemed to have transmuted them to columns of 
alabaster, when every branch, and shrub, and spray, 
glittering with transparent ice, waved in the sun-beam 
its coronet of diamonds, he. gazed, unconscious of the 
keen atmosphere, charmed and chained by the rain- 
bow-cinctured Cataract. His feet had worn a beaten 
path from his cottage thither. There was, at that 
time, an extension of the Terrapin Bridge, by a single 
shaft of timber, carried out ten feet over the fathom- 
less abyss, where it hung tremulously, guarded only 



DEATH OF THE HERMIT. 157 



by a rude parapet. To this point he often passed and 
repassed, amid the darkness of night. He even took 
pleasure in grasping it with his hands, and thus sus- 
pending himself over the awful gulph; so much had 
his morbid enthusiasm learned to feel, and even to 
revel, amid the terribly sublime. 

Among his favorite, daily gratifications, was that of 
bathing. The few who interested themselves in his 
welfare, supposed that he pursued it to excess, and 
protracted it after the severity of the weather rendered 
it hazardous to health. 

He scooped out, and arranged for himself, a seclu- 
ded and romantic bath, between Moss and Iris Islands. 
Afterwards, he formed the habit of bathing below the 
principal Fall. One bright, but rather chill day, in 
the month of June, 1831, a man employed about the 
Ferry, saw him go into the water, and a long time 
after, observed his clothes to be still lying upon the 
bank. 

Inquiry was made. The anxiety was but too well 
founded. The poor hermit had indeed taken his last 
bath. It was supposed that cramp might have been in- 
duced by the unwonted chill of the atmosphere or 
water. Still the body was not found, the depth and 
force of the current just below, being exceedingly 
great. 

In the course of their search, they passed onward 
to the Whirlpool. There, amid those boiling eddies, 
was the pallid corse, making fearful and rapid gyra- 



158 THE WHIRLPOOL. 



tions upon the face of the black waters. At some 
point of suction, it suddenly plunged and disappeared. 
Again emerging, it was fearful to see it leap half its 
length above the flood, and with a face so deadly pale, 
play among the tossing billows, then float motionless 
as if exhausted, and anon, returning to the encounter, 
spring, struggle, and contend like a maniac battling 
with mortal foes. 

It was strangely painful to think that he was not 
permitted to find a grave, even beneath the waters he 
had loved ; that all the gentleness and charity of his 
nature, should be changed by death to the fury of a 
madman; and that the King of terrors, who brings 
repose to the despot, and the man of blood, should 
teach warfare to him who had ever worn the meekness 
of the lamb. For days and nights this terrible pur- 
gatory was prolonged. It was on the 21st of June, 
that, after many efforts, they were enabled to bear 
the weary dead back to his desolate cottage. 

There they found his faithful dog guarding the 
door. Heavily must the long period have worn aw^ay, 
while he watched for his only friend, and wondered 
why he delayed his coming. He scrutinized the 
approaching group suspiciously, and would not wil- 
lingly have given them admittance, save that a low, 
stifled wail at length announced his intuitive knowl- 
edge of the master, whom the work of death had 
effectually disguised from the eyes of men. 

They laid him on his bed, the thick, dripping mass- 



DESOLATE HERMITAGE. 159 

es of his beautiful hair clinging to, and veiling the 
features so late expressive and comely. On the pillow 
was his pet-kitten; to her, also,, the watch for the 
master had been longr and wearisome. 

In his chair lay the guitar, whose melody was prob- 
ably the last that his ear heard on earth. There were 
also his flute and violin, his portfolio and books, scat- 
tered and open, as if recently used. On the spread 
table was the untasted meal for noon, which he had 
prepared against his return from that bath which had 
proved so fatal. It was a touching sight; the dead 
hermit mourned by his humble retainers, the poor 
animals who loved him, and ready to be laid by 
stranger-hands in a foreign grave. 

So fell this singular and accomplished being, at the 
early age of twenty-eight. Learned in the languages, 
in the arts and sciences, improved by extensive travel, 
gifted with personal beauty, and a feeling heart, the mo- 
tives for this estrans^ement from his kind are still envel- 
oped in mystery. It was, however, known that he was a 
native of England, where his father was a clergyman; 
that he received from thence ample remittances for 
■his comfort ; and that his name was Francis Abbot. 
These facts had been previously ascertained, but no 
written papers were found in his cell, to throw addi- 
tional light upon the obscurity in which he had so 
effectually wrapped the history of his pilgrimage. 

That he was neither an ascetic nor a misanthrope, 
has been sufficiently proved. Why he should choose 



I 



160 BIRDS AMONG THE RUINS. 

to withdraw from society, which he was so well fitted 
to benefit and to adorn, must ever remain unexplained. 
That no crime had driven him thence, his blame- 
less and pious life bare witness to all who knew 
him. 

It might seem that no plan of seclusion had been 
deliberately formed, until enthusiastic admiration of 
the unparalleled scenery among which he was cast, 
induced, and for two years had given it permanence. 
And if any one could be justified for withdrawing from 
life's active duties, to dwell awhile with solitude and 
contemplation, would it not be in a spot like this, 
where Nature ever speaks audibly of her majestic and 
glorious Author ? 

We visited, in the summer of 1844, the deserted 
abode of the hermit. It was partially ruinous, but we 
traced out its different compartments, and the hearth- 
stone where his winter evenings passed amid books 
and music, his faithful dog at his feet, and on his knee 
his playful, happy kitten. 

At our entrance, a pair of nesting-birds flew forth 
affrighted. Methought they were fitting representatives 
of that gentle spirit, which would not have disturbed 
their tenantry, or harmed the trusting sparrow. If 
that spirit had endured aught from man, which it 
miofht neither recover nor reveal : if the fine balance 
of the intellect had borne pressure until it was injured 
or destroyed ; we would not stand upon the sufferer's 
grave to condemn, but to pity. 



FATAL ERRORS. 161 



We would think with tenderness of thee, errino- 
and lonely brother. For at the last day, when the 
secrets of all are unveiled, it will be found that there 
are sadder mistakes to deplore than thine : — time 
wasted idly, but not innocently, — and talents pervert- 
ed, without the palliation of a virtuous life, the love of 
Nature, or the fear of God. 



11 



162 HIGH STREET GARDEN. 



HIGH STREET GARDEN, 



IN HARTFORD, CONNECTICUT. 



Flowers ! Flowers ! the poetry of earth, 

Impulsive, pure, and wild, 
With what a strange delight they fill 

The wanderincr, mirthful child. 
It clasps their leaflets close awhile, 

Then strews them wide around, 
For life hath many a joy to spare 

Alon'g its opening bound. 

The maiden twines them in her hair. 

And mid that shining braid, 
How fair the violet's eye of blue. 

And the faint rose-bud's shade, 
Upon her polished neck they blush. 

In her soft hand they shine. 
And better crown those peerless charms 

Than all Golconda's mine. 



HIGH STREET GARDEN. 163 

Above the floatino- bridal veil 

The white Camella rears 
Its innocent and tranquil eye, 

To calm young beauty's fears ; 
And even when hoary Age recalls 

The memories of that hour, 
Blent with the heaven-recorded vow 

Will gleam that stainless flower. 

The matron fills her crystal vase 

With gems that summer lends, 
Or groups them round the festal board 

To greet her welcome friends. 
Her husband's eye is on the skill 

With which she decks his bower. 
And dearer is his praise to her 

Than earth's most precious flower 

Frail gifts we call them, prone to fade, 

Ere the brief spring is o'er, 
Though down the smitten strong man falls 

Returning never more : 
Time wears away the arch of rock. 

And rends the ancient throne. 
Yet back they come, unchanged as when 

On Eden's breast they shone. 

How passing beautiful they are 
On youth's unclouded plain. 



164 HIGH STREET GARDEN. 



And yet we scarcely know their worth 

Till life is in its wane ; 
Then grows their love a deeper thing, 

As our lone pathway tends 
Down mid the withering plants of hope, 

And graves of buried friends. 

Like ready comforters they bend, 

If sorrow pales the cheek, 
And to the sad, desponding heart, 

An angel's message speak; 
While to the listenins: mourner's ear 

They fondly seem to say, 
The words of those departed ones 

Who sleep in mouldering clay. 

We nurse them in our casement warm 

When winter rule the year. 
And see them raise their graceful form, 

The darkest day to cheer; 
Amid our folded shroud they glow, 

When death hath had his will, 
And o'er our pillow in the dust 

They spring, and blossom still. 

Yes, o'er the cradle-bed they creep. 
With rich and sweet perfume. 

Around the marriage-altar twine, 
And cheer the darksome tomb, 



HIGH STREET GARDEN. 165 

They whisper to the faithful dead, 

With their fresh, vernal breath, 
That such his rising hour shall be, 

Through Him who conquered death. 



The beautiful domain, known by the name of the 
High Street Garden, in Hartford, comprises sixteen 
acres, and is laid out with great taste and adaptation 
to the nature of the soil and surface. Spacious walks 
are so arranged as to give effect to the elegance of the 
parterres, and seats skilfully disposed, under spreading 
shades, where the visitant may rest, and enjoy the 
surrounding attractions. 

Among endless varieties of flowers, three hundred 
families of the queenly rose, with carnations of every 
shade and hue, diffuse the richest fragrance in their 
respective seasons. Partially encompassed by a fine 
hedge, and approached by steps cut in the turf, is a 
small circular piece of water, where the broad leaves, 
and pure petals of the water-lily expand themselves, 
and arotmd whose margin, vases of the hydrangia 
luxuriate. The fairest annual flowering plants, shrubs, 
ornamental trees, foreign and domestic fruits, with a 
large and splendid green-house, adorn this delightful 
spot, which, by the liberality of its proprietor, Dr. E. 
W. Bull, is freely open both to the inhabitants, and to 
strangers, with only the restriction which their own 
good sense and good feeling ought to suggest and 



1G6 HORTICULTURE. 



enforce, of not defacing or injuring, what they come 
to admire. 

It is the opinion of many lovers of flowers, that their 
cultivation must necessarily be expensive of both time 
and money. We are authorized by the owner of this 
noble garden, to say, that it need not be so. His 
orio-inal purchase of what has since become a posses- 
sion which the most accomplished florist might covet, 
was only a few hundred feet, made twenty years since, 
when just entering on commercial business. Though 
he had at that time no capital to spare, he felt that 
daily exercise among the plants that he loved, would 
be beneficial to his health, and resolved on the estab- 
lishment of such a system. For this, his first invest- 
ment in land, he gave six notes, payable in the same 
number of years. 

" These notes," he says, " then troubled me much, as 
I doubted whether I should be able to pay them at 
maturity. But at the expiration of six years, I had 
cancelled them all, and this encouraged me to enlarore 
my domain to the amount of thousands instead of 
hundreds. As it was necessary for me to apply myself 
continually to business, during business hours, I then 
adopted a plan of early rising, which I have ever since 
persevered in. My practice for years, was to be at 
the garden, from half past three to six in the morning, 
and this gave me an opportunity, in the best and most 
quiet part of the day, unnoticed, to visit the grounds 
and mature my plans for their extsnsion and improve- 



VALUE OF EARLY RISING. » 167 

ment. My custom, for a few years past, has been to 
rise in summer at half-past four, reaching the garden, 
after breakfast, at six, and regulating my stay there, so 
as to return precisely at nine, ready to attend to the 
business of my store." 

Can any stronger example be adduced, that a love 
of flowers, when under the control of a spirit of order 
and punctuality, may be an appropriate relaxation 
from the pressure of mercantile care, and perfectly 
consistent with its prosperous pursuit 1 May it not 
also be fraught with collateral benefits of a still higher 
order? Suppose only the habit of early rising, to be 
thus acquired and confirmed. What an important 
addition would two or three hours daily, be to the 
actual limits of a brief span of life. 

Horticulture has long been pronounced by physiolo- 
gists, salutary to health, and cheerfulness of spirits; 
and if he who devotes a portion of his leisure to the 
nurture of the lovely things of nature, benefits himself, 
he who beautifies a garden for the eye of the com- 
munity, should surely be counted a public benefactor. 
He instils into the bosom of the care-worn, the sor- 
rowful, or the selfish, thoughts that heal like a medi- 
cine. He cheers the languid, desponding invalid, and 
brightens the eye of the child, with a more intense 
happiness. 

If simply the admiration of plants and flowers, 
has a tendency to refine the character, their actual 
culture must have a more powerful and abiding 



168 TEST OF MENTAL HEALTH. 

influence. It takes the form of an affection. The 
seed which we have sown, the blossom we have nursed, 
the tree of our own planting, under whose shadow we 
sit with delight, are to us as living and loving friends. 
In proportion to the care we have bestowed on them, 
is the warmth of our regard. They are gentle and 
persuasive teachers of His goodness, who causeth the 
sun to shine, and the dews to distil, who forgetteth not 
amid the ice and snows of winter, the tender, buried 
vine, and calleth forth the germ long hidden from the 
eye of man, to vernal splendor or autumnal fruitage. 

A love of the beautiful things of Nature, has been 
sometimes assumed as a criterion of the health of the 
mind. Those who are under the habitual influence of 
evil tempers, do not approximate to the spirit and 
language of flowers. In vain do they reach forth their 
sweet, clustering blossoms, — envy, hatred, and malice 
are beyond the reach of such charmers, " charm they 
never so wisely." But he, who amid the care and 
weariness of life, finds daily an interval or a disposition 
to commune with the dew-fed children of Heaven, to 
devise their welfare, and shelter their purity, has not 
yet been injured by the fever of political strife, the 
palsy of the heart, or the eating gangrene of the 
inordinate desire of riches. 

In many other countries, we see the love of flowers, 
a far more pervading and decided sentiment than in 
our own. '" In Germany," says a female tourist, " gar- 
lands of flowers are continually used as tributes of 



FLOWERS IN GERMANY. 169 

friendship, and parting gifts. Let not these things be 
accounted trifles. They are, in fact, matters of impor- 
tance, inasumuch as everything that draws heart to 
heart, and mind to mind, that contributes even in a 
remote degree to unite human beings in kind and 
affectionate remembrance, is of great consequence. 
Amona the workino^ classes, much mi^ht be done for 
the improvement of their morals, habits and manners, 
by encouraging them to use their few periods of 
leisure, for the cultivation of flowers. The difference 
between two poor families, one loving flowers, and the 
other, ardent spirits, would, at the end of twelve 
months, be very striking. It may be said, all cannot 
have gardens. True. But all may have a kw flowers 
in their windows. More than this, a little wooden 
balcony might be easily made on the outside of every 
window. To our own sex, flowers are a boon beyond 
price. The lady who is fond of her garden, and 
delights in the cultivation of it, will not seek abroad 
for expensive pleasures. Home is every thing to her, 
and if her husband is wise enough to encourage this 
taste,- it will be for his happiness." 

The description of the rose-harvest at the Hague, 
and the flower-markets in other parts of Holland, by 
Davezac, seems instinct with the very breath and 
spirit of those gems of creation. 

"The harvest of roses draws to the fields, near the 
Hague, where they are cultivated, throngs of visitants. 
In the month of May, nothing can be imagined more 



170 ROSE-HARVEST AT THE HAGUE. 



beautiful, than the aspect of these rose-lields. The 
air, filled with the sweetest emanations, makes you 
aware of your approach to them before you come in 
sicrht, surrounded as they are, by thick, live hedges, 
intended to guard the young buds from the inclement 
winds. An air of festival spread all around, proclaims 
that this is no vulgar field-work. Hundreds of young 
orirls, dressed as if for a village holiday, commence the 
oathering with appropriate songs. The first time I 
witnessed this novel harvest, it seemed like a dream. 
I became doubtful, whether I stood on Batavian 
ground. The ethereal sweetness inhaled in every 
breeze, the earth covered as it were, with a green 
carpet, embroidered with roses, the melodious voices 
of so many young and beautiful girls, would have 
indeed wafted the imaorination to the milder regions of 
Greece or Italy, but that the azure eyes, and golden 
hair of the pretty Rosiercs, proclaimed them of the 
Norman race. These roses, gathered in Holland, 
strange as it may appear, are shipped to Constantinople, 
destined to return to Europe, so concentrated l.y 
chemical art, that the perfume of 10,000 is often used 
by a lady, to scent her embroidered handkerchief. 
The roses are packed up in large hogsheads, and in 
alternate layers of flowers and salt, pressed with great 
force." "At Amsterdam, Utrecht, Rotterdam, the 
Hague, but above all at Harlaem, the floral city, crowds 
of all classes of society, assemble at the flower-markets, 
which a:e held twice a week. There the rich attends, 



to make exclusively his own, by purchase, the rubies, 
the emeralds, the sapphires of the vegetable kingdom, 
formed in the depths of the earth, by the slow elabora- 
tion of ao-es: but the humble violet and rose are taken 
to the home of the poor, to light the gloom of his 
lowly shed." 

If the admiration of what is beautiful in Nature, 
tends to refine and elevate, that for what is graceful 
and good in manners and character, might seem to be 
a step towards their acquisition. "Our taste declines 
with our merits," said a philosopher of other times. 
Was his position correct ? May taste in any degree 
be admitted as a test of mental or moral integrity? 

''Taste," says a fine writer, " is of all attainments the 
most easily perceived, yet the most difficult to describe." 
Its more common modifications, as they are seen in 
the style of dress, furniture, or arrangements of a 
household, seem to prove an innate perception of 
delicacy, a sense of propriety, or a principle of adapta- 
tion, which, though not entitled to rank with the severe 
conclusions of an accurate judgment in matters of 
higher import, are still in our sex no slight accom- 
plishments, or trifling indications of character. When 
manifested in graceful movement, or manners, elegance 
of language, and correct appreciation of the fine arts, 
it serves as a sort of historical index, pointing to the 
influence of refined society, education, or such means 
of improvement, as are seldom accessible in solitude 
and obscurity. It aids in decyphering the drama in 



172 MRS. HEMANS' LOVE OF FLOWERS. 



which the individual has moved, or the use made of 
opportunities, or that inherent strength of the self- 
taucrht, which vanquishing obstacles, possesses itself 
of the fruits, without the usual process of cultivation. 

Taste, when drawn into strong sympathy with the 
beautiful things of nature, cheers the hours of sickness, 
or decline, and glows even amid the icy atmosphere of 
death. Combined with a vivid imagination it colors 
like a passion-tint, the whole of existence, and if 
surrounding scenes are devoid of its favorite objects, 
peoples for itself a world of ideal beauty. How 
touchingly did Mrs. Hemans exclaim, as she drew near 
the close of life : " I really think the pure passion for 
flowers, the only one which long sickness leaves 
untouched with its chilling influence. Often, during 
this weary illness of mine, have I looked upon new 
books with perfect apathy, when if a friend has sent me 
but a few flowers, my heart has leaped up to their 
dreamy hues and odors, with a sudden sense of reno- 
vated childhood, which seems one of the mysteries of 
our beinjT," 

And almost the last tone of her sweet lyre, ere it 
was crushed by death, perpetuated her love of flowers. 

" Welcome, O pure and lovely forms, again 
Unto the shadowy stillness of my room ! 
For not alone ye bring a joyous train 
Of summer-thoughts, attendant on your bloom, 
Visions of freshness, of ri^h bowery gloom, 
Of the low murmurs, filling mossy dells, 
Of stars, that look down on your folded bells, 



TASTE, A MENTAL CRITERION. 173 

Through dewy leaves, of many a wild perfume, 

Greeting the wanderer of the hill and grove 

Like sudden music ; more than this ye bring — 

Far more ; ye whisper of the all-fostering love 

Which thus hath clothed you, and whose dove-like wing 

Broods o'er the sufferer drawing fevered breath, 

Whether his lingering couch be that of life or death." 

Many instances might be quoted where the true 
love of Nature has softened asperity of temper, and 
contributed to the growth of charity towards mankind. 
Vulgar minds seem not capable of appreciating its 
pleasures, and the vicious have perverted its purity. 
The mercenary and the miser suppress it. Hoarded 
gold monopolizes their devotion. Milton, in portraying 
Mammon, represents him before his fall from bliss, 
with eyes and thoughts 

" Forever downward bent, admiring more 
The riches of Heaven's pavement, trodden gold. 
Than aught divine or holy." 

Dark passions, and debasing crimes destroy the fine 
edge of the soul, and corrode it like a canker. Admit- 
ting therefore, that a pure taste for the beautiful in 
nature, isamono- the tests of mental and moral welfare, 
we shall prize it not only as a source of pleasure, but 
an ally of virtue and of piety. Shall we not then seek 
to multiply the objects which it is legitimate and 
healthful to admire? Shall we not familiarize our 
children with the harmony of color, the melody of 



174 LOVE OF NATURE. 



sound, the symmetry of architecture, the delights of 
eloquence, and the charms of poetry ? The fragrant 
flower, the whitening harvest, the umbrageous grove, 
the solemn mountain, the mighty cataract, are they 
not all teachers, or text-books in the hands of the 
Great Teacher? 

Err they not, therefore, who consider a taste for the 
charms of Nature, a waste of time ? The railroad ma- 
chinery of a jarring world, bridging its abysses, and 
tunneling the rocks of political ambition, her steam- 
boats rushing to the thousand marts of wealth, silence 
with their roaring funnels, its still, small voice. But 
let it be heard by those who meditate at eventide when 
the rose closes its sweet lips, and the tired babe is 
lulled on the breast of its mother. Let it be a com- 
panion to those, who in the morning prime walk forth 
amid the dewy fields, loving the beauty of the lily, 
which Omnipotence stooped to clothe, and from whose 
bosom, as from a scroll of Heaven, the Redeemer of 
man taught listening multitudes, the lesson of a living 
faith. 



— f 

BUNKER-HILL MONUMENT. 175 



BUNKER-HILL MONUMENT, 



Rise, lofty Column ! in thine attic grace, 

And to the stranger-bark that ploughs the deep. 

Show Freedom's land. Beckon the homeward-bound, 

Like some good angel, hovering o'er the roof 

Where sport his little ones, and where with song, 

Whose oft-repeated burden is his name. 

The mother lulls to sleep her cradled babe. 

— Then the rough sailor, battling with the surge, 

Forgets his toil, and he who wandered long 

In foreign climes, perchance, with eager eye 

For glittering pageant, or for regal pomp, 

Owns the electric chain that binds so strong 

Unto his native hills, and feels how good 

To live and die amid his fathers' graves. 

But thou, — around thy base, when early Spring 
Tints the first violet, lure those beauteous groups 
Who gambol free from care. There should they 

meet 
Some ancient soldier leaning on his staff, 
And lost amid the memories of the past, 



176 BUNKER-HILL MONUMENT. 

By their young footsteps roused, he '11 haply raise 
His wasted hand, and point each fearful change 
Of Bunker's battle-day, — where the assault 
Kindled to wildest fury, — where the voice 
Of Prescott and of Putnam, nerved their troops 
To deeds of untold daring, — where the cry 
Burst forth when Warren fell, — where the dire flash 
Was hottest, and the life-blood of the brave 
Gushed reddest, till the kingly crest was bowed 
To infant Liberty. Then may they trace, 
Those childish listeners, on that furrowed brow 
The holy zeal of men of other days, 
Who sought no guerdon save their country's weal ; 
And should that country need, so may they stand, 
When time hath knit their sinews, in the might 
Of the same heaven-born trust. 

And if the hands 
That never plucked a laurel in the fields 
Of iron warfare, nor the fitful weight 
Of empire poised, have lent their humble aid 
In woman's weakness, to cement thy stones, 
Think it no scorn, oh Column ! but uprear 
Thy glorious head as proudly toward the cloud ! 
For these, amid their sheltered, lowly sphere, 
Making the hearth-stone beautiful with love, 
And in the fountain of a nation's hopes 
Mingling sweet drops of purity and peace, 
Subserve the cause which thou art bound to praise, 
To far posterity. 



BUNKER-HILL MONUMENT. 177 

And when we pass 
On, with our generations to the tomb, 
When age on age, like tossing bubbles break, 
Stand thou, and mark the dim decay of time. 
Yea, though the San, like wounded Caesar, fold 
His mantle darkly round him, be thou firm, 
Even till the last flame wraps the wrinkled Earth. 



This noble monument is erected on the spot, where 
the fortifications were hastily thrown up by the earliest 
soldiers of the Revolution, June 16th, 1775, the 
night preceding the battle of Bunker Hill. It is an 
obelisk two hundred and twenty-one feet in height, 
having a spiral staircase within, of two hundred and 
ninety.-four steps, and at the top, an elliptical chamber, 
eleven feet in diameter, lighted by four windows, from 
whence is a glorious prospect of earth and sea. Its 
material is the beautiful sienite granite from the quarry 
at Q,uincy, and it is constructed with the utmost 
mathematical precision, and regard to durability. 
Some hindrance in the progress of the work, arising 
from the financial depression of the country, allowed 
the ladies the honor of more immediate cooperation; 
and the avails of a Fair held in Boston, aided by 
some liberal donations, were sufficient for the comple- 
tion of the object. 

Not far from the base of the monument, a small 
portion of the ancient breastwork remains, and must 
12 



178 CORNER-STONE LAID. 



ever be viewed with veneration by those who realize 
the effect that this rude mound of earth had upon the 
destinies of their country. A slight column or Tuscan 
pillar of wood, on a brick pedestal, in memory of 
General Warren, whose priceless blood was shed at 
Bunker Hill, was erected on this spot, in 1783, but 
being much defaced by time, is removed. The inscrip- 
tion was from one of his own eloquent orations. 

" None but they who set a just value on the blessings 
of liberty, are worthy to enjoy her. In vain we toiled; 
in vain we fought; we bled in vain; if you, our 
offspring, want valor to repel the assaults of her in- 
vaders." 

The corner-stone of the Bunker Hill Monument, 
was laid on the fiftieth anniversary of the battle that it 
commemorates, by Gen. La Fayette, the soldier of two 
hemispheres, the friend of our country in adversity, 
and her honored guest, when she had won a name and 
a place among the nations. The presence of some of 
the survivors of that sanguinary conflict gave a strong 
interest to the scene. The stirring eloquence of 
Webster, enwrapt the attention of an immense assem- 
bled multitude. But what w^ere their emotions in 
comparison with those which filled the breasts of the 
hoary, veteran soldiers ! 

What imagery flashed before them, as the curtain of 
half a century drew back ! A small band go forth from 
Cambridge, at nine in a summer's evening, beneath the 
eye of the solemn, watchful stars. Exulting music 



BATTLE. 179 



echoes from the British ships, whose proud flags are 
floating in the harbor. But they tread in silence, and 
in earnest thought. Midniglit deepens, ere they obtain 
entrenchinop tools to bemn their secret work. Then, 
with dauntless spirits, and hands inured to toil, they 
commence their fortification. Earth, and the spade, 
and the solemn night, the sexton's companions, are 
theirs. Yet they labor not for burial, but in glorious 
hope. Day dawns, but still that patient band labor 
unrefreshed. And they laere of that hand. 

Morning breaks. Surprise and indignation seize 
the foe, as an alarm-gun from their own ships an- 
nounces what the provincials had in a night brought 
forth. Their council meets. Such contumacy must 
be chastised. Their soldiers, in rich uniform, muster 
for battle, where the offending bastion rises. Serried 
bayonets glisten. Heavy cannon roll up the heights, 
A band is there to meet them, — the ^qw against the 
many, — the young children of the wilderness against 
the force of the sceptred monarch of the isles. And 
they were of that hand. 

The tumult of battle swells. The struggle is fearful. 
The sun pours down an intense heat. The grass ripe 
for the scythe is trampled down, that the iron harvest 
of war may be reaped. The new-mown hay is pressed 
into the interstices of the breast-work. The earth is 
saturate with blood. Enthusiasm rises to madness. 
Devouring flames enwrap the roofs of Charlestown. 
The enemy, formidable for numbers as well as valor, 



180 LA FAYETTE. 



twice repulsed, ascend the hill a third time, reinforced 
and resolved on victory. A comparatively small band, 
led on by intrepid officers, still '' jeoparded their lives 
in the high places of the field." Aiid they were of that 
band. 

Yes. And as their souls rekindle with these mem- 
ories, they forget the peril, the suffering, their dying 
comrades, and their own wounds, and their aged 
voices in one burst of sound, exclaim, — " We are 
ready, should our country again need our services, 
ready to shed the last drop of our blood for her." 
The venerable La Fayette, standing in the midst of 
those heroic survivors, regretted the honor did not 
belong to him of having been one of those who in 
person fought upon that sacred hill-top. Some cir- 
cumstances connected with the battle of Bunker-Hill, 
and its effect upon the future fortunes of the country, are 
thus forcibly depicted by the pen of the Rev. Mr. Ellis. 
" That action was of primary importance from the 
influence which it exercised upon our fathers, who 
unknown to themselves had before them a war of 
protracted length, partaking largely of reverse and 
discouragement. They learned this day what they 
might do, in the confidence that God was on their 
side, and that their cause was good. That work of a 
summer's night was worth its price to them. They 
lacked, discipline, artillery, bayonets, powder and ball, 
food, an.d the greatest want of all, during that fearful 
conflict, they lacked the delicious draught of pure, 



INFLUENCE OF BUNKER-HILL BATTLE. 181 



cool water, for their labor-worn, and heat-exhausted 
frames. They found that desperation would supply 
the place of discipline; that the stock of a musket 
wielded with true nerves, would deal a blow as deadly 
as the thrust of a bayonet ; that a heavy stone would 
level an assailant, as well as a charge of powder. As 
for food and water, the hunger they were compelled to 
bear unrelieved, and they cooled their brows only by 
the thick, heavy drops which poured before the sun. 
It was their opening combat, and it decided the spirit 
and hope of all their subsequent campaigns. They had 
freed themselves, during the engagement, from all that 
natural reluctance, which they had heretofore felt, in 
turning their oifensive weapons against the breasts of 
former friends, yes, even of their kindred. On that 
eminence, the first bright image of Liberty, of a free 
native land, kindled the eyes of those who were expir- 
ing in their gore, and the image passed between the 
living and the dying, to seal the covenant, that the 
hope of the one, or the fate, of the other, should unite 
them, here, or hereafter. Henceforth, from the village 
homes, and farm-houses around, amid the encouraging 
exhortations, as well as the tearful prayers of their 
families, the yeomen took from their chimney-stacks, 
the familiar, and well .proved weapons of a life in the 
woods, and felt for the first time, what it was to have 
a country, and resolved for the first time, that they 
would save their country, or be mourned by her." 
The placing of the last stone upon the Bunker 




Hill Monument, was on the 23d of July, 1842, 
and announced to the people by the voice of cannon. 
On the 1.7th of June of the following year, the sixty- 
seventh anniversary of the battle, was another scene 
of deep national interest. Again, the powerful voice 
of Webster was heard addressing and electrifying an 
immense multitude gathered from every part of the 
Union. 

How fraught with change had been these intervening 
years. The throwing up of earth with the spade, on 
the same hill, by the fathers, would no longer be 
counted rebellion. Twenty millions of people now over- 
spread a free and prosperous country, for which they 
then periled their lives, and which numbers among 
her countless blessings that of peace with the realm 
which she was once called to meet in fields of blood. 

Some of the veterans of the battles of the revolution, 
were at the celebration of the completion of the Mon- 
ument on Bunker Hill, but few in number, and wasted 
in strength. Yet the patriot flame had not gone out 
in their bosoms, and their fervent prayers were still 
for the welfare of their beloved Country. 



Break forth, break forth, in raptured song, 
And bid it pour thy vales along. 

Thou pilgrim-planted land ! 
From fields where ripening harvests bend, 
From marts where thronging thousands tend, 

Arouse thy tuneful band. 



The breeze that curls thy watery deeps, 
The strain that o'er thy mountain sweeps, 

Is fresh with freedom's breath, . 
Thine annals boast the great and brave 
Thy star-clad banner, tells the wave 

Of Liberty or Death. 

Rememberest thou those ancient sires, 
Who mid the Indian's council fires, 

Explored a trackless clime? 
The pillar of their God was bright, 
His cloud by day, his flame by night, 

Impelled their course sublime. 

Rememberest thou the men who shed , 
Their blood upon thy bosom red, 

When haughty foes were nigh? 
The remnant of that wasted band 
Here, mid their buried comrades stand, 

Oh ! bless them ere they die. 

All hail, proud column, strong and fair. 
Which to exultincr throno-s dost bear 

High record of the past, 
And show theiii on this glorious morn. 
The spot where Freedom first was born 

Amid the thunder-blast. 

Not like those gloomy mounds that rise 
O'er crouching Egypt's sultry skies, 




Nor fretted fanes that brave 
Old Time, on Rome's imperial soil, 
By stern taxation wrung from toil, 

The tyrant from the slave; 

But the free gift of hands unchained, 

And hearts uncrushed and homes unstained, 

Thou through the cloud dost peer. 
And warn, like morning's blessed star 
The watchful mariner from far. 

That all he loves draws near. 

Still onward o'er the sea of time 
Unfold thy chronicle sublime. 

And teach a race unborn 
The lesson learned on Bunker's height. 
To trust in Heaven, uphold the right, 

And base oppression scorn ; 

Point to the skies, and bid them read 
Of patriot faith, the hallowed creed. 

And guard its ritual bright, 
And choose the path their fathers trod. 
Those friends of liberty and God, 

Who rose to realms of light. 



HOME OF AN EARLY FRIEND. 185 



HOME OF AN EARLY EEIEND 



WRITTEN ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF HER BIRTH. 



Yes, there thou art beneath the hill, 

By waving poplars circled still, 

Old House ! that time hath deigned to spare, 

Mid sunny slopes, and gardens fair. 

Well might I every chart and line, 

Of parlor, hall, and nook define, 

For childhood's eye is keen to trace 

Each favorite and familiar place ; 

The woodbine through the casement peeping, 

The pampered cat on cushion sleeping. 

The pleasant haunt with books o'erspread, 

The antique chairs, the curtained bed, 

By housewife's patient needle wrought 

With many an ample flower. 
And shepherd lost in lover's thought, 
And purling brook with willows fraught, 

And maid in greenwood bower. 

CD 



186 HOME OF AN EARLY FRIEND. 

Here too, was many a place of cheer, 
And pastime with my phiymate dear, 
And lo ! this vernal sun serene 
Erst brought her day of birth I ween, 
When she was crowned our fairy queen, 
And featly led the charmed ring 
With childhood's joyous banqueting. 

Once, on this morn so sweetly fair, 
Yon ancient dome was sad with care, 
While hurrying step, and stifled word, 
From darkened room were faintly heard, 
And missed the household many a day, 
Their Lady from her place away. 
But when again, she cheered the scene 
At hearth and board, with brow serene, 
And paler cheek, and saintlier air, 
Wrapped in her arms, a babe she bare, 
Gentle and pure, as snow-drop frail. 
That shrinks to meet the chilling gale. 
While often o'er its cradle bowed 
The stately father, fond and proud. 

Swift fled a happy year, and lo! — 

Ere the young sprmg-flowers 'gan to blow. 

That bud of being, opening fair, 

Inhaled affection's balmy air, 

And wondrous change, like fairy-tale. 

Passed o'er that form, so slight and pale. 



HOME OF AN EARLY FRIEND. 



187 



First, peeping pearls through lips of rose, 
Their latent ministry disclose, 
Then little feet on nursery floor, 
Went tireless patting o'er and o'er. 
And dulcet tones, like chirping bird. 
The mother's raptured pulses stirred. 
And busy fingers clasped the toy, 
Or held the doll in durance coy, 
Or roused the house-dog, strong and old, 
On ample rug supinely rolled, 
With brawny back, and curly hair. 
Well pleased his master's pet to bear, 
While merry laugh and baby wile, 
Woke on each brow an answerinor smile. 



More birth-days came, and sweetly mild, 

Turned from her sports a thoughtful child, 

Intent o'er ancient page to pore, 

Or catch the breath of hallowed lore. 

Then first at school-desk quaintly set. 

The sister of my soul I met. 

And budding friendship, fed with dew 

Of knowledge, firm and healthful grew. 

O'er classic tomes, mid tasks severe. 

Mind quickened mind, unspent and clear. 

And heart to heart new vigor lent, 

As up the arduous steep we bent. 

Or with unenvying gladness shared 

Laborious study's rich reward, 



188 HOME OF AN EARLY FRIEND. 

Some hard-earned prize for toil-spent days, 
Or dearer still, our teacher's praise. 

With riper years, and school-days spent, 

Still were our plans and pleasures blent. 

The needle's art and pencil's power 

Wrought the same landscape, form, or flower, 

O'er the same book our raptures rose. 

The same secluded haunt we chose, 

By rugged rock, or sounding stream, 

We woke the same enthusiast dream, 

Through solemn grove, at noon of day, 

To secret bower we stole away. 

And summer eve, so sadly fair, 

Looked through the shades and found us there. 

Time told not true his muffled hour 

To tuneful brook, or listening flower, 

And we, entranced, were heedless quite 

To count his sands, or mark his flight. 

Yet not alone, o'er cloudless skies 
Did Friendship throw her golden dies, 
Nor knew I with what full control 
Thou hadst dominion o'er my soul. 
Companion meek, until thy tear 
Fell trickling o'er affection's bier; 
For holy Friendship soars more high 
'Neath sorrow's chastening ministry, 



HOME OF AN EARLY FRIEND.' 189 

And sweetest breathes, when tempests lower 
To try the root, or bruise the flower. 

I left thee, for a little space, 

With tender word, and long embrace, 

Thy brow of beauty tinted bright 

With health and joy's returning light ; 

I came, thy step with gladness fleet, 

Sprang not, as erst, mine own to meet. 

Thy kiss, thy greeting smile, no more 

Received me at the open door. 

But where, at twilight's pensive shade, 

Mid humid turf we sometimes strayed, 

And. lingering scanned with reverent tread 

The lettered tablets of the dead, 

The broken earth, the crumbling mould, 

Tales of a recent tenant told. 

And in my heart the curdling tide. 

The speechless pang, her name supplied. 

Who thus with cheek so young and fair, 

In silence found a pillow there. 

Since then, though many a year hath fled, 
And many a wreathed hope is dead, 
And other friends my heart hath found, 
And strongest ties my bosom bound, 
Yet when this opening morn of spring, 
Again thy time of birth doth bring. 



190 HOME OF AN EARLY FRIEND. 

Remembered joys renew their tide, 
And thou art seated by my side, 
Again thy polished brow to raise, 
Through clustering curls, with tender gaze, 
Again reveal like sparkling dew, 
Thine inmost spirit's stainless hue; 
Nor can I feel, that hadst thou still 
My partner been through earthly ill. 
Time could have dimmed thy joyous air, 
Or flecked with grey thy flowing hair, 
Or scattered from his raven wing. 
Such change as he to us doth bring. 

Thou art not changed, though with the blest. 
Save that thou wearest an angel's vest. 
Save that thou breathest a glorious strain. 
Which hath nor dissonance, nor pain ; 
Save that thou dwellest where winter hoar, 
And day and night revolve' no more. 
Thou art not changed, thy head is bowed, 
To cheer me from yon fleecy cloud. 
Wait ! Wait ! for if I truly tread 
The path thy sainted footsteps led, 
I ne'er will think a love like ours 
Can fade like earth's forofotten flowers : 
It had a root in faith sublime, 
Its perfect fruit shall mock at time. 



PRECOCITY. 191 



The subject of the foregoing lines, Ann Maria 
Hyde, was a native of Norwich, Conn., and born on 
the first spring-morning of 1792. She was reared 
with the most ardent parental solicitude, which was 
repaid with warm affection, and the early development 
of uncommon powers of mind. 

She derived instruction from books, at an age when 
many children are employed with the simplest modifi- 
cations of the alphabet. Sport and pastime with her 
playmates she enjoyed, but for her highest pleasures 
stole quietly away to her little library. The historical 
parts of Scripture she read with great delight, and 
when her tiny hands were unable to sustain the weight 
of a large Bible, and her infantine form rendered it 
unsafe for her to sit by it at a table without the care 
of others, she would spend hours and even days, 
stretched on the carpet studying its pages, sometimes 
suddenly raising her little bright face, to read aloud 
such passages as peculiarly arrested her attention, or 
affected her heart. 

When old enough to attend school, her eager desire 
for knowledge, and scrupulous regard to all the wishes 
of her instructors, distincruished her amono' her com- 
panions, as well as the accuracy of her recitations, 
and the classic beauty of her written thoughts. So 
close was her application, and so precocious her intel- 
lect, that at twelve, she was pronounced well grounded 
in the solid branches of a good education. Her taste 
led her to philosophical and historical studies, which 



192 POETIC TEMPERAMENT. 

she continued to pursue, as opportunity was granted 
her, throucrhout the remainder of life. 

At the age of fourteen, she left school, and became 
the companion of her parents. Her time was happily 
divided between a cheerful participation with her 
mother, in those cares which promote domestic com- 
fort, an earnest interest in such books as pleased her 
father, and that enjoyment of those beauties of nature, 
for which the romantic scenery of her native place 
furnished continual aliment. The virtues of a friend, 
as well as a daughter, were even at this early period of 
life strongly developed, and beautiful. 

The poetic temperament was discerned almost in 
infancy, by her shrinking delicacy of feeling, and 
favorite themes of contemplation. This, like her 
other departments of intellect, was marked by precocity. 
An effusion of hers, written at the age of nine years, 
on a beautiful infant, was placed by a relative, without 
her knowledge, in the pages of a periodical. When 
she saw it there, she burst into tears, and was long 
deeply distressed. Her poems were not numerous, 
and frequently unfinished, but harmonious in their 
numbers, and in their subjects such as the affections 
dictated. 

Her early youth passed without a cloud. Its first 
shadow was deep sympathy in the sorrows of an only 
sister, many years older than herself, the sudden death 
of whose husband, caused an entire reverse of fortune. 
From this participation in affliction, sprang forth a 



IMPROVEMENT OF TIME. 193 

noble principle, a desire to assist by her own personal 
exertions, in the education of the two fatherless chil- 
dren. She obtained the consent of her parents to 
engage in the work of instruction, and with an energy 
that astonished the friends who knew the shrinking 
diffidence of her nature, and the indulgences of afflu- 
ence in which she had been fostered, decided to 
become the member of a school, in a distant city, in 
order to acquire some accomplishments which were at 
that time deemed essential for a teacher of young 
ladies. 

She, whose love of her own pleasant sheltering 
home was almost a morbid sentiment, braved privation 
and inconvenience, for several months, amonof stran- 
gers, without a murmur. There she might be seen, 
in the coldest mornings of winter, takino- her loner 
walk to school, attending throughout the day, with a 
perseverance that allowed no moment to be lost, to 
those pursuits which were to qualify her for a sphere 
of future labor. In the evening, by the parlor fire 
of her boarding-house, or in her own little chamber, 
she wrought with her drawing-pencil, or her embroid- 
ery-needle, or completed long letters to the beloved 
parents and mourning relatives over whom her heart 
yearned. 

On her return to her native place, she faithfully 

and successfully engaged in the education of young 

ladies, in company with an associate, whom from her 

own school-days she had loved. For whatever was 

13 



194 EPITAPH. 



irksome in this employment, she strengthened herself 
with an invincible pritience, and was surprised at 
the degree of happiness that it imparted ; while the 
consciousness of being useful to others, gave at times 
an almost celestial expression to her lovely counte- 
nance. 

At this period of her life she evinced how eminently 
her nature was formed for friendship. The troubles 
of her friends she made her own ; their praises seemed 
more than her own, for she took them into her heart 
with warm gratulation, while those addressed to herself, 
she scrutinized with a severe humility, which half 
rejected them as unjust. Constitutional diffidence 
protected her from forming promiscuous intimacies, 
while her exquisite sensibility, high integrity, and dis- 
interested spirit, gave to the attachments she eventually 
formed an inviolable constancy. 

It was during tliis happy season of her life, that 
she wrote the following, probably her most finished 
poem. 

EPITAPH ON MYSELF. 

Stracger ! beneath this stone, in silence sleeps 
What once had animation, reason, life ; 

And while in vain the eye of friendship weeps, 
The bosom rests, unvexed by mortal strife. 

No more the smiles of joy illume the face. 

Nor health's fair roses on the cheek shall bloom, 

Forever fled the gaiety and grace 

Of sprightly youth r, they gleam not o'er the tomb. 



EPITAPH. 195 



Oh strang-er, pause ! So shall thy graces die, 
Thy talents, birth, and fortune all decay ; 

Thus, low in dust, thy lifeless form shall lie, 
And power, and wealth, and honor pass away. 

Love not too well the empty breath of fame. 

Nor wrap thy heart in hoards of glittering store ; 

Death spares not for the tinkling of a name, 
He points his shaft, and greatness is no more. 

No arms escutcheoned on the lowly stone 
Reveal the titled greatness of the dead. 

To proud ambition, and to fame unknown. 

Was she who slumbers in this mouldering bed. 

No weeping Muses consecrate the ground. 
No pensive bards, in tuneful requiem sigh. 

Nor genius here, breathed inspiration round. 
The hallowed spot where these cold relics lie. 

Heaven has to few the envied gift assigned 
Of Wit's enchanting, but deceptive light. 

Nor gleamed its magic o'er her humble mind. 
Who slumbers here in deep oblivion's night. 

What though no gathering crowds assembled round 
Her final home, or graced the funeral bier. 

Believe not, that this undistinguished ground 
Was never moistened by affection's tear. 

For who so vile, so unbeloved can live, 

So unlamented to the grave descend, 
That sympathy no tribute has to give, 

Nor sad remembrance moves one mournful friend. 



196 EPITAPH. 



Reader I if firm resolve inspired thy soul, 
No more from Virtue's sacred bound to stray, 

Yet fierce temptation, with its strong control, 
Again impelled to error's devious way ; 

If thou didst mourn in vain, for follies past, 

Then weakly yield to vanity again, 
Fmd every boasted motive fail at last, 

And imperfections all thine actions stain ; 

Oh ! pause, and contemplate a kindred mind. 
And then implore of .Heaven, assisting might, 

That thou may'st Wisdom's narrow boundary find, 
And sovereign mercy guide thy steps aright. 

Mourn not for her, whose unreluctant heart 

'Neath this green turf hath found a refuge lone, 

Nor at the truthful admonition start, 

That tells such bed shall shortly be thine own. 

Farewell ! To Wisdom consecrate thy days, — 
But ye, who strive with eager hands to gain 

Earth's glittering store and mortal's fitful praise. 
Approach, and on my tombstone read, they're vain. 



Though her attachment to her parents, relatives, 
and chosen friends, was so great, that she emphatically 
lived for them, more than for herself, it had been 
evident from infancy, that the love of her father was 
peculiar and predominant. In their intellectual tastes 
there existed a strong congeniality ; he had made him- 



self from childhood the partaker of her pleasures, and 
the companion of her studies. She had been to him 
almost an object of idolatry, and when the weight of 
advancing years called on her to minister to his daily 
comfort, her affection became inexpressibly tender and 
pervading. It was a touching mixture of deep respect, 
and fond devotedness, a delight in being near him ; 
a desire to protect him from all anxiety, an indwelling 
of his image in her perpetual thought. To the friend 
who shared her entire confidence, she sometimes 
expressed the feeling that she should never be able to 
survive him. 

But sudden and alarmino; sickness made him its 
victim. Night and day she watched him, without 
consciousness of fatigue ; she was unwilling that any 
hand save her own should prepare or administer either 
medicine, or nourishment. When the work of the 
Destroyer was complete, she wished to be constantly 
near the beloved clay, but it was observed that she 
shed no tear. *' How beautiful are those features," she 
often murmured, but no drop from her straining eyes 
fell upon them. The knell at which she was wont to 
weep, when it tolled even for strangers, the great 
concourse mournfully assembling to do honor to the 
deceased, the pathetic prayers from lips that she 
revered, the sullen grave closing upon the cherished 
form, drew no tear. Friends watched her with intense 
anxiety, strangers were astonished at her composure. 

She returned from the funeral solemnities, and sat 



198 BEREAVEMENT. 



down silently by the deserted hearth-stone, in the very^ 
chair of the departed father. But still she wept not. 
The whole night and the following day passed in the 
same unmitigated anguish ; nor was it until induced to 
pour out her whole soul into the bosom of an early 
friend, that she shared the blessed relief of tears. 

Still the shadow of grief was slow in liftinor itself 
from her spirit. Indeed, it is doubtful whether its 
effects ever wholly passed away. For though she 
returned to life's duties, there was about her that utter 
chastisement of earthly hope, that sublimation of the 
soul, whether in sorrow, or in joy, which ever looks 
upward for its perfect rest. With the most earnest 
assiduity she strove to console her widowed mother, 
and for her sake preserved cheerfulness of deportment, 
and again took the smile upon those beautiful lips, but 
it was not like her smile. It was that of a pensive 
spirit, ripened for a purer clime, having its treasures 
already garnered up there. 

She still labored for the improvement of the pupils, 
whose education she continued to conduct, veiled her 
sorrows lest they should darken the pathway of her 
remaining parent, strove to be a comforter to her 
widowed sister, and to advance the welfare of her 
fatherless children. The perusal of sacred poetry 
formed the principal solace of the few intervals of 
leisure in which she allowed herself, but its composi- 
tion was laid aside after the departure of the beloved 
one who had been the prompting spirit. 



DEATH. 199 



Somewhat more than two years after his death, she 
was taken ill of a fever. Its first attack seemed slight, 
but her discriminating mind apprehended the result, 
and arranged even the minutest circumstance as one 
who returns no more. " I have no longer any wish 
for life," she said, *' but for my dear mother's sake." 

As the disease developed its fatal features, she 
faintly whispered, " Lay me by the side of my father." 
Apprehending that the delirium so generally incidental 
to that disease might overpower her, she drew her 
sister down to her pillow, and slowly articulated, " I 
have many things to say to you. Let me say some of 
them now, or perhaps I may not be able. You know 
how much I have loved you. Seek an interest in our 
Saviour. Promise me that you will prepare to follow 
me. For Oh ! I never before felt so happy. Soon 
shall I be in that world 

" Where rising floods of knowledge roll, 
And pour, a-nd pour upon the soul." 

And so with many other kind and sweet words, and 
messages to the absent and beloved, and communino;s 
with the Hearer of Prayer, passed away at the age 
of twenty-four, as lovely a spirit as ever wore the vest- 
ments of mortality; so lovely, that the friend who from 
life's opening pilgrimage had walked with her in the 
intimacy of a twin-being, is able to remember no 
intentional fault, no wayward deviation from duty, and 
no shadow of blemish, save what must ever appertain 
to dimmed and fallen humanity. 



200 THE STOCKBRIDGE BOWL. 



THE STOCKBRIDGE BOWL. 



The Stockbridge Bowl ! — Hast ever seen 

How sweetly pure and bright 
Its foot of stone, and rim of green, 

Attract the traveller's sight? 
High set among the breezy hills 

Where spotless marble glows, 
It takes the tribute of the rills 

Distilled from mountain snows. 

You've seen, perchance, the classic vase 

At Adrian's villa found, 
The grape-vines, that its handles chase, 

And twine its rim around. 
But thousands such as that which boasts 

The Roman's name to keep, 
Might in this Stockbridge bowl be lost 

Like pebbles in the deep. 

It yields no sparkling draught of fire 
To mock the maddened brain, 

Like that which warmed Anacreon's lyre 
Amid the Tean plain ; 



THE STOCKBRIDGE BOWL. 201 

But freely, with a right good-will, 

Imparts its fountain store, 
Whose heaven replenished crystal still 

Can wearied toil restore. 

The Indian hunter knew its power, 

And oft its praises spoke. 
Long ere the white-man's stranger plough 

These western vallies broke; 
The panting deer, that wild with pain. 

From his pursuers stole, 
Inhaled new life to every vein 

From this same Stockbridge bowl. 

And many a son of Berkshire skies, 

Those men of noble birth. 
Though now, perchance, their roofs may rise 

In far, or foreign earth, — 
Shall on this well-remembered vase 

With thrillincr bosom craze, 
And o'er its mirrored surface trace 

The joys of earlier days. 

But one, who with a spirit-glance 

Hath moved her country's heart, 
And bade, from dim oblivion's trance 

Poor Maofawiska start, 
Hath won a fame, whose blossom rare 

Shall fear no blightinoj sky, 
Whose lustrous leaf grow fresh and fair. 

Though Stockbridge bowl be dry. 



202 BERKSHIRE COUNTY. 



In the northern part of Stockbridge, Berkshire 
County, is a beautiful expanse of water, usually called 
the " Great Pond," which in many countries would 
be dignified with the appellation of a lake. Its origi- 
nal Indian name of *' Q,uit-chu-scook," is scarcely 
melodious enough for its singular loveliness. Miss 
Sedgwick, whose birth is counted among the glories of 
that region, says, " the English equivalent to this 
aboriginal word, ' The Boivl' is short, simple, and 
perfectly descriptive. No bowl was ever more beauti- 
fully formed, or set, nor ever, even in old Homer's 
genial verse, sparkled more invitingly." 

The County of Berkshire, with its wild and bold 
scenery, seems to have impressed its image strongly 
on the affections of those who have emigrated from its 
bosom. Not a few of that large number have acquired 
distinction in their distant abodes, yet still look back 
with that fond remembrance to their mountain-home, 
the first nurse of their infancy, which reflects honor 
both on the mother, and the children. 

In the summer of 1844, the pleasing and novel 
sucrorestion was made, of re-assemblingr as far as possi- 
ble the scattered sons of the county, to hold a season 
of rejoicing among the green hills of their nativity. 
Pittsfield, from its central position, and other advanta- 
ges, was selected as the place of the proposed re-union. 
The invitation thatwas sent forth is a model of cordial 
and patriotic sentiment. 

" In every point of view," it remarks, *' we feel that 



THE INVITATION. 203 



such a meeting would be highly interesting. The 
sons of Massachusetts have reason to revere and love 
their native soil. She is the mother and nurse of a 
mighty people. In the very cradle her sons had to 
fight the battles, and use the wisdom of mature man- 
hood. And while the descendants of those who landed 
on her rocky coast have gone abroad, and amount to 
nearly five millions of souls, she holds on her way, with 
her soil trodden by the free, and the air of her moun- 
tains still breathed by a noble race of men. Her hills, 
her valleys, and her limpid streams remain as they 
were, save that the former are greatly beautified by 
the hand of man, and the latter pressed into his service 
and made the source of increasing wealth. Her enter- 
prise too has opened a path through her mountains of 
rock, and the iron horse with ease climbs up and goes 
down what once seemed almost impassable barriers of 
nature. 

" But that which is the pride of Massachusetts, is 
her sons and daughters ; they constitute her glory, 
whether they remain here, beautifying the old home- 
stead, or whether they go out to expend their indomit- 
able energies under warmer skies and on richer plains. 
Amons these, Berkshire has furnished her full share, 
— offspring who would honor any parent. These we 
should rejoice to see gathered at the hearth of their 
mothers, to hold a day of congratulations and of sweet 
recollections. We love these sons and daughters 
none the less because they have gone from us, and we 



204 THE GATHERING. 



wish to have the home of their childhood live green 
in their memory. The chain which binds them to us 
is more than golden, and we would have its links grow 
strongrer and bricrhter." 

The response to this call was warm and earnest. 
The appointed time in August witnessed throngs of 
arrivals in Pittsfield. There, hospitality was the opening 
both of house and heart. Every possible arrangement 
for comfort and accommodation had been made ; seats 
placed on a beautifal hill, and a noble banquet spread 
under cover of a tent for three thousand guests. 
Music and eloquence, song, genius, and beauty, lent 
their attractions to the two summer days thus spent 
toorether. 

The weather, on which the comfort of a popular 
assemblacre, where there is a lar^e admixture of ladies, 
eminently depends, was generally propitious. But 
one morninof, when an audience of nearly six thousand 
had gone in procession to their hill of Jubilee, and 
were listenincr with enchained attention to an accom- 
plished speaker, a heavy rain suddenly fell. This 
was attended by a most singular rushing sound, the 
simultaneous expansion of thousands of umbrellas, 
under whose protection such as could be accommo- 
dated repaired to the church, where the exercises were 
continued. 

In excursions to different points of interest, the 
ancient and magnificent Pittsfield Elm was not for- 



gotten. Around its venerable head, multitudes of 



THE RESULT. 



205 



birds were observed to be congregating and circling 
on joyous wing, as if holding an imitative jubilee of 
their own. . 

The result of this gathering, in which pecuniary 
gain, or political ambition had no part, did not disap- 
point the hopes of its projectors. May it serve as a 
precedent for other parts of our country, and may the 
rekindling of that fraternal feeling, and love for the 
spot of nativity, which beat strongest in the best 
hearts, quicken the fountain of true patriotism, and 
charity for the whole family of mankind. 



They come ! they come ! by ardent memory led, 
From distant hearth-stones, a rejoicing train, 

And hand in hand, with kindred feeling, tread 
Green Berkshire's vales, and breezy hills again, 

Back to the cradle of their own sweet birth, 
Back to the foot-prints of their early prime. 

Where in the nursery of their native earth 

They caught the spirit of their mountain clime; 

The free, bold spirit, that no change can bind. 
The earnest purpose that no toil can tame, 

The calm, inherent dignity of mind. 

The love of knowledge, and of patriot fame. 



They bring the statesman's and the student's dower, 
The honors that to rural life belong. 




Of sacred Eloquence, the soul-felt power, 

The palm of Science, and the wreath of Song. 

And thou, blest Mother ! with unfrosted hair, 
Still made by age more beautiful and strong. 

Pour a glad welcome, at thy threshold fair, 
And breathe thy blessing o'er the filial throng. 

Enfold them warmly in thy fond embrace, 
And with thy counsels of true wisdom guide, 

That, like themselves, their yfet uncounted race 
May be thy glory, as thou art her pride ! 



VALE OF WYOMING. 207 



VALE OF WYOMING. 



There's many a beauteous region of the earth, 
Doth take its baptism from Castalia's fount, 
And henceforth, to the ears of men, become 
A charmed name. But in this new-found West 
There hath been little pomp, or ornament 
Bestow'd to herald Nature, where she works 
With glorious skill. 

And so, the traveller goes 
To muse at Thessaly, or strike his lyre 
Beside Geneva's lake, or raptured mount 
Benlomond's cliff, pouring o'er other climes 
The enthusiasm which his own might well inspire. 
Yet go not forth. Son of the patriot West, 
To give the ardor of thine earliest love 
Unto an older world, till thou hast seen 
June's cloudless sun o'er Wyoming go down. 
And from her palace-gate, the queenly moon 
Come slowly forth, wrapped in her silver veil, 
So calm, so still, not as at Ajalon 
To light the vengeance of the warrior's arm, 
But lost in admiration of a scene 



208 VALE OF WYOiMING. 



She helps to beautify. Yea, go not forth, 

Till from the brow of yonder mountain height 

Throucrh interlacinor branches, rich with bloom, 

The tulip, or magnolia, thou dost part 

The canopy of close-enwreathed vines, 

And through a mass of foliage, looking down 

On copse, and cultured field, and village spire, 

Behold the Susquehannah, like a bride, 

Glide on in beauty, to her nuptial hour. 

Here, too, are gloomy haunts, where roam the bear. 

Or the insatiate wolf, and sunny glades, 

Where with li^ht foot the red deer leads her fawn. 

And quiet, shaded brooklets, where leap up 

The speckled trout. 

Yet still, deceitful Vale, 
So lulled, and saturate in deep content 
With thine exceeding beauty, thou dost hide 
A blotted history, of tears and blood, 
A dire, Vesuvian, lava-written scroll. 
Which the confiding lover at thy feet 
But little wots of. Thy romantic groves. 
And fairy islets, have sent up the cry 
Of wounded men, and o'er the embroidered bank 
Where violets grow, the carnage-tint hath lain 
Deep as a plague-spot. 

Ask yon monument, 
That o'er the velvet verdure lifts so high 
Its lettered chronicle, who sleeps below ? 
And why, so many lustrums, tearful Spring 



VALE OF WYOMING. 209 



Did weep, like Rizpah, o'er the slaughtered brave, 
Unnamed, unhonored ere its pillared breast 
Arose to take the record of their names, 
And of their valor, teach a race unborn. 



The memories of red war, how thick they spring 
Amoncr these flowers. Here in fierce strife have stood 
Indian and white man, aye I and they whose faith 
Was in the same Redeemer, through whose breasts 
Flowed the same kindred blood-drop, casting off 
The name of brother, in their cradle learned. 
Have madly met, I may not tell you how. 
History hath stained her pencil and her page 
With these dark deeds, and ye may read them there. 



Yet would I tell one tale of Wyoming, 
Before we part. There was a pleasant home, 
In times long past. A little, crystal brook, 
Where water-cresses grew, went singing by. 
While the ripe apples, gleaming thro' the boughs, 
And- in its humble garden, many a bush 
Of scarlet berries, sprinkled here and there 
With fragrant herbs, sage and the bee-loved thyme. 
Betokened thrift and comfort. 

Once, as closed 
The autumn-day, the mother, by her side 
Held her young children, with her storied lore. 
Fast by her chair, a bold and bright-eyed boy. 
Stood, statue-like, while closer, at her feet, 
14 



210 VALE OF WYOMING. 



Were his two gentle sisters. One, a girl 

Of some eight summers, youngest and most loved 

For her prolonged and feeble infancy. 

She leaned upon her mother's lap, and looked 

Into her face, with an intense regard. 

And that quick, intermitting sob that tells 

How the soul's listening may impede the flow 

Of respiration. Pale she was, and fair, 

And so exceeding fragile, that the name 

Given by her stronger playmates, at their sports. 

Of " Lily of the Vale," seemed well bestowed. 

The mother told them of her native clime, 

Her own, beloved New England, of the school. 

Where many children o'er their lessons bent, 

Each mindful of the rules, to read, or spell. 

Or ply the needle, at the appointed hour, 

And how they serious sate, with folded hands, 

When the good mistress through her spectacles 

Read from the Bible. 

Of the church she spake, 
With slender spire, o'er-canopied by elms, • 
And how the sweet bell on the sabbath-morn, 
Did call from every home, the people forth, 
All neatly chd, and with a reverent air. 
Children, by parents led, to worship God. 
Absorbed in such recital, ever mixed 
By that maternal lip, with precepts pure, 
Of love to God and man, they scarcely marked 
A darkening shadow, o'er the casement steal. 



VALE OF WYOMING. 211 

Until the savage footstep, and the flash 
Of tomahawks, appalled them. 

Swift as thought 
They fled, thro' briars and brambles fiercely tracked 
By grim pursuers. The mother taxed 
With the loved burden of her youngest-born, 
Moved slowest, and they cleft her fiercely down : 
Yet with that impulse, which doth sometimes move 
The sternest purpose of the red man's breast. 
To a capricious mercy, spared the child. 
Her little, struggling limbs, her pallid face 
Averted from the captors, her shrill cry 
Cominof in fitful echoes from afar, 
Deepened the mother's death pang. 

Eve drew on, 
And from his toil the husband, and the sire, 
Turned wearied home. With wondering thought he 

marked 
No little feet come forth to welcome him ; 
And through the silence, listened for her voice, 
His Lily of the Vale, who first of all 
Was wont to espy him. 

Through the house he rushed, 
Empty and desolate, and down the wild. 
There lay his dearest, weltering in her blood 
Upon the trampled grass. In vain he bore 
The form of marble to its couch, and strove 
Once more to vivify that spark of life 
Which ruthless rage had quenched. 

On that dread hour 



212 VALE OF WYOMING. 

Of utter desolation, broke a cry 

" Oh father ! father !" and around his neck 

Two weeping children twined their trembling arms, 

His elder-born, who in the thicket's depths 

Scaped the destroyer's eye. 

When bitter grief 
Withdrew its palzying power, the tireless zeal 
Of that dismembered household, sought the child 
Reft from their arms, and oft, with shuddering 

thought, 
Revolved the hardships, that must mark her lot, 
If life was hers. And when the father lay 
In his last, mortal sickness, he enjoined 
His children, never to remit their search 
For his lost Lily. Faithful to the charge, 
They strove, but still in vain. 

Years held their way, 
The boy became a man, and o'er his brow 
Stole the white, sprinkled hairs. Around his hearth 
Were children's children, and one pensive friend. 
His melancholy sister, night and day, 
Mourninor the lost. At lenorth a rumor came, 
Of a white woman, found in Indian tents, 
Far, far away. A father's dying words 
Came o'er the husbandman, and up he rose, 
And took his sad-eyed sister by the hand, 
Blessincr his household, as he bade farewell 
For their uncertain pilgrimage. 

They prest 



VALE OF WYOMING. 213 

O'er cloud-capped mounts, through forests, dense 

with shade, 
O'er bridgeless rivers, swoln to torrents hoarse, 
O'er prairies like the never-ending sea, 
Following the chart that had been dimly traced 
By stranger-guide. 

At length they reached a lodge. 
Deep in the wilderness, beside whose door 
A wrinkled woman, with the Saxon brow 
Sate, coarsely mantled in her blanket-robe, 
The Indian pipe between her shrivelled lips. 
Yet, in her blue eye dwelt a gleam of thought, 
A hidden memory, whose electric force 
Thrilled to the fount of being, and revealed 
The kindred drops, that had so long wrought out 
A separate channel. 

With affection's haste 
The sister clasped her neck, '' Oh lost and found ! 
Lily ! dear sister ! praise to God above ! " 
Then, in wild sobs, her trembling voice was lost. 
The brother drew her to his side, and bent 
A long and tender gaze, into the depths 
Of her clear eye. That glance unsealed the scroll 
Of many years. Yet no responding tear 
Moistened her cheek, nor did she stretch her arms 
To answer their embrace. 

"O Lily! love! 
For whom this heart so many years hath kept 
Its dearest place," the sister's voice resumed, 



214 VALE OF WYOMING. 



" Hast thou forgot the home, the grassy bank 
Where we have played ? the blessed mother's words, 
Bidding us love each other 1 and the prayer, 
With which our father at the evening hour 
Commended us to God ? " 

Slowly she spake, — 
*' I do remember, dimly as a dream, 
A brook, a garden, and two children fair, 
A loving mother, with a bird-like voice, 
Teaching us goodness ; then, a trace of blood, 
A groan of death, a lonely captive's pain ; — 
But all are past away. 

Here is my home, 
These are my daughters. 

If ye ask for him. 
The eagle-eyed, and lion-hearted chief. 
My fearless husband, who the battle led, 
There is his grave." 

" Go back, and dwell with us, 
Back to thy people, to thy father's God," 
The brother said. " I have a happy home, 
A loving wife and children. Thou shalt be 
Welcome to all. And these thy daughters too. 
The dark-eyed, and the raven-haired shall be 
Unto me, as mine own. My heart doth yearn 
O'er thee, our hapless mother's dearest one, 
Let my sweet home be thine." 

A trembling nerve 
Thrilled all unwonted, at her bosom's core, 



VALE OF WYOMING. 215 



And her lip blanched. But her two daughters gazed 
All fixedly upon her, to their cheek 
Rushing the proud Miami chieftain's blood, 
In haughty silence. So, she wept no tears, 
The moveless spirit of the race she loved 
Had come upon her, and her features showed 
Slight touch of sympathy. 

" Upon my head 
Rest sixty winters. Scarcely eight were past 
Among the pale-faced people. Hate they not 
The red man in their heart 1 Smooth christian words 
They speak, but from their touch, we fade away, 
As from the poisonous snake. 

Have I not said 
Here is my home? and yonder is the bed 
Of the Miami Chief? Two sons who bore 
His brow, rest on his pillow. 

Shall I turn 
My back upon my dead, and bear the curse 
Of the Great Spirit?" 

Through their feathery plumes 
Her dark-eyed daughters, mute approval gave 
To these stern words. 

Yet still, with faithful zeal, 
The brother, and the sister waited long, 
In patient hope. If on her brow they traced 
Aught like relenting, fondly they implored 
" Oh sister ! go with us !" and every tale 
That poured o'er childhood's days a flood of light, 



216 VALE OF WYOMING. 

Had the same whispered burden. 

Oft they walked 
Beside her, when the twilight's tender hour, 
Or the young moonlight blendeth kindred hearts, 
So perfectly together. But in vain. 
For with the stony eye of prejudice 
Which gathereth coldness from an angel's smile, 
She looked upon their love. 

And so they left 
Their pagan sister in her Indian home. 
And to their native vale of Wyoming, 
Turned mournful back. There, often steeped in tears 
At morn or evening, rose the tearful prayer 
That God would keep alive within her soul 
The seed their Maker sowed, and by his grace 
So water it, that they might meet in Heaven. 



The pleasure of travelling in the State of Pennsyl- 
vania, and noticing the abundance of its resources, is 
heightened by referring to the memory of its benevolent 
founder, the Man of peace. The scene under the 
broad shadow of the Elm at Kensino-ton, often rises to 
view, when, in the autumn of 1682, he executed that 
treaty with the natives, which has been happily styled, 
the " only one ever formed without an oath, and the 
only one that was never broken." 

There, with a few followers, unarmed save with the 
fearlessness of honesty, he met the fierce chieftains, 
"sudden and quick in quarrel," the tomahawk inured 



WILLIAM PENn's TREATY. 217 

to blood in their belts, and in their quivers the ar- 
row that never missed its aim. Trained to suspicion, 
by the oft-repeated treachery of the whites, their rigid 
and care-worn features strangely softened, as they 
observed the beaming countenance, and simple man- 
ners of William Penn ; while with a kind of instinct 
often possessed by the children of the forest, they 
murmured to each other, " He is a true manr 

When he freely gave them the price they demanded 
for their territory, adding beside, many articles of 
merchandise which he begged them to accept as 
gifts, and put into their hands a parchment-deed of 
the purchase, requesting them to keep it for their 
posterity, their iron hearts were melted before the 
spirit of truth and peace, and the impulsive, and 
impassioned shout burst forth, "We will love Mi- 
quon,* and his children, as long as the sun and moon 
give their light." 

Our first view of the Susquehannah convinced us 
that it deserved the praise so often given it, of being 
one of the most beautiful rivers, that ever indented 
earth's surface. The green banks, and fairy islets 
around which it circles and lingers, seem to embrace, 
and strive to detain it, with an earnest love. A bridge 
over its clear waters, among the pleasant scenery of 
Owega, is the dividing line between the States of New 
York and Pennsylvania; and after crossing it, we 
traversed an exceedingly hilly country, clothed with 
primeval forests. 

* The name given by the aborigines, to their friend, William Penn. 



218 VARIETIES OF CHARACTER. 

Among some of the most prominent peculiarities of 
the German population which here prevails, are im- 
mense stone-barns, several stories in height, and costly 
beyond what would seem appropriate for an agricul- 
tural establishment. This species of architecture was 
rendered the more remarkable, by contrasting it with 
some of the small, incommodious farm-houses, where 
the young children basking neglected in the sun, 
around the doors, or enclosures, and the large horses 
with their sleek, shining coats, proudly moving in 
ponderous wagons, proved that purely animal nature 
absorbed its full quota of attention from the master 
and father. 

Travelling for part of a day in one of the public 
conveyances, it was striking and even affecting to see 
the diversity of character and fortune, which the cir- 
cumference of a few feet comprehended. In the group 
nearest our own, were a newly-married pair, who 
being all the world to each other, sought to elude the 
observation of that world, as well as any claim it might 
chance to institute upon their time or attention. 
Then there was a poor, young creature of seventeen, 
unattended by protector or friend, with her son, 
scarcely a month old, going from the humble home of 
her parents, to her husband, a collier, in the mining 
districts, and thankful for the least advice or assistance 
in quieting her wailing babe. Then there was a lady, 
in a fixed consumption, its fatal flush upon her cheek, 
and unearthly brightness in her eye, moved by the 



LOG-HOUSE. 219 



restlessness of that wasting disease, to travel without 
other aim or object, than present alleviation, or pos^bly 
an illusive, shadowy hope, of future gain. Beside 
herself, and the nurse, were two sweet little daughters, 
of six and eight, her only treasures, companions in all 
her wanderings; while she, apparently aware of her 
perilous condition, exchanged with those objects of her 
affection fond and mournful looks, like one journeying 
to that " bourne from whence no traveller returns." 

After our party were again by ourselves, in our own 
vehicle, curiosity induced us, during the fervor of a 
summer-noon, to enter a log-house, and inspect its 
capacities, and the habitudes of its inmates. It was 
one of the larger order, and comprised two stories of 
moderate height. As there was no public house, in 
its immediate vicinity, the family were ambitious of 
providing us entertainment, and set forth from their 
own resources a decent dinner, with a dessert of 
freshly gathered berries from the neighboring field. 
Afterwards, they furnished conveniences for a siesta, 
to such as desired it, and produced for the readers, 
newspapers in German and English, with a few antique 
volumes. We discovered that in these unpretending 
tenements, there might exist more of comfort and 
even of refinement, than their rude aspect announces 
to the passing traveller. 

At Montrose, and Centreville, we found good ac- 
commodations, and at the latter place were told the 
story of a calamity, which in the summer of 1833, 



220 COAL-MJNES. 



came upon them as suddenly as the shower of flaming 
cinders that enveloped Pompeii. At nine in the eve- 
ninor, while many of the villagers were in the act of 
retirintr to rest, a whirlwind passed over them, and in 
the short space of two minutes, laid the greater number 
of their dwellings in ruins. A church, and a bridge 
of solid timber, were rent in fragments, and dispersed 
as swiftly, as those of slighter material and foundation. 
The storm fortunately moved in a narrow vein, but 
whatever stood in its pathway, was displaced, or 
destroyed. Yet amid all this unexpected desolation, 
the uprooting of trees, and the atmosphere filled with 
flying missiles, the Hand of mercy so protected the 
inhabitants, that no lives were lost. 

At Carbondale is a specimen of the celebrated and 
inexhaustible coal-mines of Pennsylvania. A shaft of 
two thousand feet in extent, carried into the side of a 
mountain, we explored, riding on the car of the miners, 
and lighted only by the flickering lamps, which they 
bore in their hands. The walls of anthracite rose on 
either side, ando'er-canopied our heads, like an arch of 
polished ebony, while occasionally the sound of trickling 
waters oozing out amid utter darkness, reminded us of 
the regions of Erebus. Hundreds of tons daily, are the 
product of these mines, w^hich are borne by the power 
of steam up a steep hill of six hundred feet, for the 
purposes of transportation. A community of miners 
from Ireland and Wales, exist here in distinct settle- 
ments, each preserving their national habits and 



BEAUTIFUL PROSPECTS. 221 



characteristics, and not always inclined to a pacific 
intercourse. The Cambrian women, with tall white 
caps, and ruddy faces, were occupied in household 
duties, and the care of their children, while one or 
two pastors faithfully labored for the instruction of 
their emigrant flock. 

After witnessing the junction of the Susquehannah, 
with the soft-flowing, and sweet-named Lackawanna, 
we entered the valley of Wyoming, so long and justly 
famed for its fascinating beauty. From Prospect Rock, 
from Ross Hill, and other points of view, every variety 
of surface was visible, from the deep-shaded slumber- 
ing dell, to the sunny hill, cultivated to its very sum- 
mit ; and every intermediate hue, from the pure white 
of the buck -wheat, to the rich blue of the blossoming 
flax-field, the dark green of the forest, brightened now 
and then by the glancing antlers of the deer, the 
empurpled drapery of the mountains, and the irized 
ebony of the anthracite, the diamond of that remarka- 
ble region. Often was some melodious passage from 
the Gertrude of Campbell brought to the memory or 
the lips, by scenery, which had he ever beheld, he 
might doubtless more accurately have portrayed. 

" Nor wanted yet the eye for scope to muse, 
Nor vistas opened by the wandering stream ; 
Both where at evening Alleghany views 
Through ridges burning in her western beam, 
Lake after lake, interminably gleam : 
And past those settlers' haunts, the eye might roam 



222 WILKESBARRE. 



Where earth's unliving silence all might seem, 
Save where on rocks the beaver built his dome, 
Or buffalo remote, lowed far from human home." 

Wilkesbarre, which should have adopted the classic 
name of Wyoming, is embosomed in that enchanted 
vale, and laved by the blue waters of the Susquehannah. 
A great proportion of its inhabitants are of Connecticut 
origin, and it displays thrift and industry, as well as a 
rich dowry of nature's charms. It exhibits an agreea- 
ble state of society, and admits visitants to an inter- 
course both heartfelt and hospitable. Among many 
cherished obligations to the friends, under whose 
auspices this journey was made, is an introduction to 
this pleasant spot and kind-hearted people. 

No one, gazing on the quietness of the surrounding 
vale, where it might seem that peace would ever 
delight to have folded her wing, can remember without 
emotion, its history of tears and blood, or realize that 
its smiling surface conceals a catacomb of bones. 

The most sudden and surprising changes marked 
its early existence. The settler who wielded at morn 
the sickle that was to give his children bread, grasped 
at noon the weapon of the soldier, and ere night-fall 
moistened with the life-tide from his bosom, the clods 
of the valley. Civil war unveiled its rovolting features. 
Neighbor stood against neighbor, and friend against 
friend. The nurtured at one breast, met with the 
frown of deadly foes, and heads that had lain side by 
side in the same cradle, were cleft by kindred hands. 



WARFARE AND ITS EFFECTS.' 223 

Still, uriavved by terror or tempest, the Moravian 
missionaries lifted the white flag of the Gospel's peace, 
and Zinzendorff labored to teach the ignorant natives 
of the forest the love of a Redeemer. 

The bitter strife between the New-England settlers 
and the Pennsylvanians, between the loyalists and the 
sons of liberty, in our war of revolution, and the fearful 
massacre, which made the few survivors of the valley 
fugitives, are too well known, and too painful, to be 
here recapitulated. Yet, whatever prompted the call 
to arms, whether the defence of home or country, or 
the blind ardor of a mistaken cause, the men of Wyo- 
ming were always the bravest of the brave. 

Utter desolation and desertion came upon the 
Valley, after the battle of 1778. Its defenders had 
fallen, and the bereaved families took their flight, to 
whatever place of refuge might be open to them. 
Some even travelled on foot to Connecticut, and 
implored shelter in the clime of their ancestors. 

After the restoration of peace, the fugitives gathered 
themselves together, and returned to their beloved and 
desolated Wyoming. Their first sacred duty was to 
search for, and deposit the mutilated remains of their 
relatives and friends, beneath the soil that they had so 
nobly defended. But the lapse of years had silently 
reduced those green mounds to the level of the sur- 
rounding verdure, until nothing remained to designate 
the exact spot of interment, save general locality, and 
the tenacity of tradition. When prosperity once 



224 MONUMENT. 



more revisited the Valley, Memory turned with an 
increase of grateful love, to those who had perished in 
its defence. Their decaying bones were collected, 
and a monument projected, which should transmit the 
story of their valor to future times. But its progress 
was arrested by various causes and forms of financial 
embarrassment, until the ladies of the Valley, by their 
eneroretic efforts, won for themselves the honor of its 
completion. 

It is erected on the precise spot where the ashes of 
the fallen brave repose, five miles from the village of 
Wilkesbarre, and on the opposite bank of the Susque- 
hannah. Its material is granite drawn from the neigh- 
boring mountains. Simplicity and symmetry are its 
constituents. It is an obelisk of sixty feet in height, 
on abase eighteen feet in diameter, having four marble 
tablets inserted, and bearing on the one in front the 
following inscription. 

Near this spot was fought 

On the afternoon of the 3d of July, 1778, 

The Battle of Wyoming : 

In which a small band of pratriotic Americans, 

Chiefly the undisciplined, the youthful and the aged, 

Spared by inefficiency from the distant ranks of the Republic, 

Led by Col. Zebulon Butler and Col. Nathan Denison, 

With a courage that deserved success, 

Fearlessly met, and bravely fought 

A combined British, Tory and Indian force 

Of thrice their number : 



INSCRIPTION. 225 



Numerical superiority alone gave victory to the Invaders, 

And wide-spread havoc, desolation and ruin 

Marked their savage and bloody footsteps through the valley. 



This Monument, 

Commemorative of these events, 

And in memory of the actors in them. 

Has been erected 

Over the bones of the slain. 

By their descendants and others, who gratefully appreciate 

The service and sacrifices of Patriot Ancestors. 



On the two side tablets are inscribed the names of 
those who fell in this battle, the officers arranged ac- 
cording to their rank, and the soldiers in alphabetical 
order, with the expressive motto, 

" Dulce et decoram est pro Patriae mori." 



The remaining; tablet above the door is for the 
names of the few who were in the battle, and survived. 
This monument forms a prominent object in the sur- 
rounding scene, raising its fair head amid the green 
foliage of summer, the many-hued leaves of autumn, 
or the snow-clad boughs of winter, and yielding both 
from base and summit an extended view of vale, 
village, river, and mountain. 



To find the connecting links between beautiful 
nature, and the higher endowments of the human 
15 



226 REV. EDMUND D. GRIFFIN. 

mind, is always delightful. Thus we were led to 
search out here, with no common interest, the birth- 
place of the late Rev. Edmund D. Griffin, one of the 
most accomplished clergymen of his times, who was 
early called from a world which his intellect and piety 
would have benefitted, to that where faith receives its 
blessed reward. A bright and peculiar association is 
connected with his first visit to this his native valley, 
when a boy of twelve, which cannot be so well related 
as in the language of his biographer, the Rev. Dr. 
McVickar. 

" On Sunday an incident occurred, whic will 
long be remembered with interest by those who were 
present. It happened that the solitary pastor of the 
Valley was that day absent on some neighboring 
mission. The church consequently was not opened, 
but the congregation assembling in the large room of 
the academy, prayers were offered up by some of the 
elders. After this, a discourse was to be read. A 
volume of sermons with that view was handed to the 
father of Edmund, either out of compliment to his 
standing, or as being more conversant with public 
speaking than any present. The father, not being very 
well, transferred the book to his son ; his modesty for 
a moment shrunk from it, but the slightest wish of his 
father was ever a paramount law with him : so he 
arose, and addressed himself to his unexpected task, 
with no greater hesitation than became the occasion. 
The sermon selected, proved to be an impressive one. 



SCENE IN THE CHURCH. 227 

The reader was less than thirteen years of age ; in the 
language of affection of ' angelic beauty ; ' and many 
of those present, saw him now, for the first time, since 
but a few years before they had caressed him, an infant 
on the knee. His talents as a reader, by nature 
superior, were heightened by the excitement of the 
occasion ; and the effect upon a numerous audience, 
to use the lanofuaore of one who heard it, was ' inde- 
scribable and overpowering.' They remembered the 
words of the Psalmist 'out of the mouth of babes and 
sucklings hast thou ordained strength,' and their 
hearts yielded to the lips of a child, an obedience 
which ao-e and wisdom could not have commanded. 
This incident, never forgotten by the inhabitants of 
his native valley, was afterwards recalled to mind with 
deep interest, when, after eleven years, he again ad- 
dressed them as an authorized preacher of the gospel. 
This was his only subsequent visit, and but two years 
before his death." 



Proud dowry hast thou, beauteous dell, 

Of murmuring stream, and mountain swell. 

And storied legend, stern and hi^h 

Of ancient border chivalry. 

And ashes of the brave, that sleep 

In hallowed urn, mid foliage deep. 

Still Memory calls with magic power, 
Forth from his cherished natal bower, 



228 



HIS BIRTH-PLACE. 



A form, whom Beauty rare and high, 
And Genius, with an eagle eye, 
And Piety on radiant throne, 
Did consecrate, and make their own. 

A traveller in the realms of old, 

Where art and wealth their charms unfold, 

Amid the Alpine cliffs he saw 

That Name which woke his infant awe, 

And summoned to an early tomb, 

In bright, but scarce perfected bloom, 

Beheld, with faith's exulting thought. 

The crown by his Redeemer bought. 



Fair Wyoming, the enthusiast's eye 
Doth scan thy charms with ecstasy. 
Yet though the tide of minstrel song 
Hath flowed thine echoing haunts along. 
And martyr-courage, bold and free, 
Bequeathed its blood-stained wreath to thee, 
A holier fame for thee is spread, 
The birth-place of the sainted dead. 



REMOVAL OF AN ANCIENT MANSION. 229 



REMOVAL OF AN ANCIENT MANSION. 



Where art thou, old Friend? 

When last 
This familiar haunt I past, 
Thou didst seem in vigorous cheer, 
As like to stand, as any here, 
With roof-tree firm, and comely face 
Well preserved in attic grace, 
On columns fair, thine arches resting. 
Among thy trees the spring-birds nesting; 
Hast thou vanished ? Can it be, 
I no more shall gaze on thee? 

Casements, whence the taper's ray 
Glittered o'er the crowded way, 
Where embalmed in fraorant dew 
Peered the snowy lilac through, 
Chimnies, whence the volumed smoke 
Of thy warm heart freely spoke, 
Fallen and gone ! No vestige left. 
Stone from stone asunder reft. 
While a chasm, with rugged face. 
Yawns and darkens in thy place. 



230 



REMOVAL OF AN ANCIENT MANSION. 



Threshold! which I oft have prest, 
More a habitant than guest, 
For their blessed sakes who shed 
Oil of gladness on my head, 
Brows with hoary wisdom drest, 
Saints, who now in glory rest, 
Fain had I, though tear-drops fell, 
Said to thee one kind farewell. 
Fain with tender, grateful sigh, 
Thanked thee for the days gone by. 

Hearth-stone ! where the ample fire 
Quelled Old Winter's fiercest ire. 
While its blaze reflected clear 
On the friends who gathered near, 
On the pictures quaint and old. 
Thou of quiet pleasures told ; 
Knitting-bag, and storied page, 
Precepts grave from lips of age. 
Made the lengthened evening fleet 
Lightly, with improvement sweet. 



Fallen dome ! beloved so well. 
Thou could'st many a legend tell, 
Of the chiefs of ancient fame. 
Who to share thy shelter came. 
Rochambeau and La Fayette 
Round thy plenteous board have met, 



REMOVAL OF AN ANCIENT MANSION. 231 

With Columbia's micrhtier son. 
Great and glorious Washington. 
Here, with kindred minds they planned 
Rescue for an infant land, 
While the British Lion's roar 
Echoed round the leagured shore. 

He, who now where cypress weeps, 
On Mount Vernon's bosom sleeps, 
Once in council grave and high 
Shared thy hospitality, 
When the sound of treason drear, 
Arnold's treason, met his ear. 
Heart, that ne'er in danger quailed. 
Lips that ne'er had faltered paled, 
As the Judas' image stole 
Shuddering, o'er his noble soul, 
As he sped, like tempest's shock, 
On, to West-Point's periled rock. 

Beauty here, with budding pride, 
Blossomed into youth and died ; 
Manhood towered with rulino- mind. 
Age, in reverent arms declined. 
Bridals bright, and burials dread, 
From thy gates their trains have sped ; 
But thy lease of time is run. 
Closed thy date, thy history done. 



232 



REMOVAL OF AN ANCIENT MANSIOxN. 



All are vanished, all have fled, 
Save the memories of the dead. 
These, with added strength adhere 
To the hearts that year by year 
Feebler beat, and fainter glow, 
Till they rest in turf below, 
Till their place on earth shall be 
Blotted out, old dome, like thee. 



Other fanes, 'neath favoring skies, 
(Blessings on them ! ) here may rise, 
Other groups, by hope be led, 
(Blessings on tiiem ! ) here to tread, 
Yet of thee, their children fair 
Nothing wot, and nothing care; 
So a form that soon must be 
Numbered with the past like thee, 
Rests with pilgrim-staff awhile, 
On thy wreck, deserted pile. 
And the dust that once was thine. 
Garners for affection's shrine. 



The mansion that gave a subject to the foregoing 
lines, was erected in 1733, by the Rev. Daniel Wads- 
worth, the pastor of the first congregational church in 
Hartford, Connecticut. It was connected with both 
the ecclesiastical and civil history of early times ; 
being, while the residence of his son. Col. Jeremiah 
Wadsworth, the scene of frequent consultations between 



HISTORICAL RECOLLECTIOx\S. 233 

the officers of the American and French armies, 
during the war that achieved our independence. Wash- 
ington, who highly valued him as a friend, was a guest 
in his house, when Arnold's treachery was consumma- 
ted, and reached West Point, just after the flight of the 
traitor. The plan of the southern campaign is sup- 
posed to have been laid in one of its chambers. When 
La Fayette, in 18*24, received the glad welcome of a 
country, which his youthful heroism had aided to save, 
vivid recollections were restored, by a visit to this 
abode. He was able, notwithstandino- the Ions inter- 
val that had elapsed, accurately to describe its south 
front chamber, where so many important councils had 
been held, affecting both the fortunes of war, and the 
destinies of our infant nation. 

This venerable dwelling was unpretending, though 
respectable in its exterior, and had received additions 
at different times, as the state of its household required. 
The latest erection was of several chambers in the 
rear, supported on heavy brick columns, through whose 
white rows the moonbeams, in a fine evening, had a 
singularly pleasing effect. The premises were surround- 
ed by enclosures, adorned with shrubbery and trees, 
and by a garden of flowers, fruits, and various families 
of those herbs, whose friendly natures have affinity 
with health. 

Everything in the interior of the house was adapted 
to promote the comfort of its inmates. During the 
long and cold winters, large, clear wood-fires diff'used 



234 ANCIENT HOUSEKEEPING. 



their o-enial warmth through all its inhabited parts, the 
anthracite not having then effected a lodgment. There 
might be seen that perfection of ancient house-keeping, 
which, combining liberality with a just economy, stud- 
ied the convenience of all, and kept every one at their 
post of duty. In those times the mistress, not deem- 
ing it beneath the dignity of a lady to know how to 
superintend every department of her own domicile, 
wisely ruled all its clock-work springs, and by estab- 
lishing order and punctuality, prevented that greatest 
of all prodigality, the waste of time. 

There, in the place of his birth, the Hon. J. Wads- 
worth died, held in high respect as a man of noble 
mind and energy of character, conspicuous in camp 
and council, who served his country both in war and 
peace, at home and in foreign climes. He sustained 
the office of Commissary, during the greater part of 
the revolutionary contest, and after the consolidation 
of the government, took his seat in the halls of Con- 
gress. He was especially a benefactor to his native 
city, where his public spirit gave him great influence, 
and where it was his delight to aid industry and talent, 
struggling against the obstacles of poverty, or an ob- 
scure station. 

There his sisters, whpm he made happy by every 
proof of fraternal affection, passed their lives and 
departed, at an advanced age, held in affectionate re- 
membrance by all who knew them. They were dis- 
tinguished by heartfelt piety, and an integrity that 



ANCIENT VIRTUES. 235 

influenced every word and action, by an industrious 
improvement of time, and fond affection for those con- 
nected with them by kindred blood. They possessed 
also the capacity for constant friendship, and that 
warm sympathy for the woes of others, which age did 
not quench, and which revealed itself in the moistened 
and tearful eye, whenever any tale of human suffering 
met their ear. 

The same mansion was the residence of the widow 
of the late Col. Wadsworth, a lady who left an indeli- 
ble impression on the memory of those who shared 
her intimacy. Her virtues having a firm root, contin- 
ued to ripen and mellow to the latest hour of life. 
During the war, the position of her husband, as sol- 
dier and statesman, diversified her department with 
much care and responsibility, under the pressure of 
which she evinced a discretion and wisdom, compe- 
tent both to execute, or to control. 

As a mother, she was affectionate, and unwearied 
in her exertions, and to the close of her existence the 
wishes, hopes, and welfare of her children were inter- 
woven with the closest fibres of her heart. 

In the direction of her own affairs, as well as in her 
opinion of those of others, she exercised a discrimina- 
ting judgment, the result of a clear mind, close obser- 
vation, and grave experience. She was gifted with a 
native equanimity, so excellent in woman, which amid 
perplexing or eventful scenes, preserved her from hurry 
of spirits, or confusion of intellect. This, united to 



236 LONGEVITY AND PIETY. 



habits of regularity, doubtless promoted health, and 
longevity, and aided in the preservation of that vigor 
of intellect, which remained unimpaired to the last. 

She revered the teachers and ordinances of religion, 
and made the Scriptures, with which she had been 
acquainted from youth, a part of her daily study. Books 
of high literary character, especially those of historical 
and theological research, were sources of unfailing 
delight ; and she gave an example of happily combining 
their love, with the faithful discharge of relative and 
domestic duty. 

Her more than fourscore years were not suffered 
to chill her participation of either social, or intellectual 
enjoyment. Her retentive memory was preserved entire, 
and the impressions made by passing events, or inter- 
esting authors, seemed as vivid, as those engraven at 
earlier periods of life. She was reading the graphic 
tour of a traveller in ancient climes, and speaking 
with animation of its varied descriptions, when the 
last messenger, a sudden paralysis, touched her brow, 
and checked the flow of utterance. A few days of 
gentle, and patiently endured suffering, divided the 
active duties of this life, from the perfect rest of 
another. 

The mansion, thus rendered venerable by historic 
lore, and the memory of the sainted dead, was removed 
from its original site on Main Street, to Buckingham 
Street, in the spring of 1842. Its place is now occu- 
pied by the " Wadsworth Athenseum," thus named 



WADSWORTH ATHEN^UM. 237 



from grateful respect to Daniel Wadsworth, Esq., who, 
in addition to other liberal donations, freely gave for 
the public good a spot hallowed by the sacred memo- 
rials of his ancestors. 

This new edifice, which is an ornament to the city, 
is of light, grey granite, laid in large blocks, and un- 
hewn. Its style of architecture is Gothic, of the cas- 
tellated character, massive, and with little decoration, 
but strongly marked by its towers and battlements. 

The interior is divided by walls into three equal 
compartments. The principal rooms are in the second 
story, each seventy feet long, thirty wide, and from 
twenty-five to thirty in height. One of these apart- 
ments is occupied as the Library of the " Young 
Men's Institute," comprehending at present about 
10,000 volumes; and by their reading-room, which is 
well supplied with European and American periodicals. 
Another is appropriated to the Fine Arts, containing 
pictures in history, landscape and portrait, with a de- 
partment for sculpture; and a third accommodates the 
archives of the " Connecticut Historical Society," 
which comprise five thousand bound volumes, beside 
multitudes of pamphlets and manuscripts. 

The " Natural History Society" has its Collections, 
and holds its meetings in the lower story ; where are 
also smaller apartments for the accommodation of the 
various objects connected with the Institution. 

May the benevolence that projected and completed 
this fine structure, dedicating it to those objects that 



238 OBJECTS OF THE INSTITUTION. 



elevate national character, be rewarded by the pro- 
gress in knowledore, the refinement of taste, and the 
permanent improvement of this people, and their 
posterity. 



PRAYERS OF THE DEAF AND DUMB. 239 



PRAYERS OF THE DEAE AND DUMB. 



If sweet it is to see the babe 

Kneel by its mother's side, 
And lisp its brief and holy prayer, 

At hush of eventide, — 

And sweet to mark the blooming youth 
. 'Neath morning's purple ray, 
Breathe incense of the heart to Him, 
Who ruleth night and day, — 

How doth the bosom's secret pulse 

With strong emotion swell, 
And tender pitying thoughts awake, 

Which language may not tell, — 

When yon mute train who meekly bow 

Beneath affliction's rod, 
Whose lip no utterance hath for man. 

Pour forth the soul to God. 



240 PRAYERS OF THE DEAF AND DUMB. 

They have no garment for the thought 
That springs to meet its Sire, 

No tone to flush the glowincr cheek. 
Or fan Devotion's fire ; 

Yet upward to the Eternal Throne 

The spirit's sigh may soar, 
As sure as if the wing of speech 

Its hallowed burden bore. 

Were language theirs, perchance their tale 

Of treasured grief or fear, 
Might cold or unresponsive fall 

Even on a brother's ear, — 

So may they grave upon their minds 

In youth's unfolding day, 
'T is better to commune with Heaven 

Than with their kindred clay. 

The pomp of words may sometimes clog 

The ethereal spirit's flight. 
But in the silence of their souls 

Burns one long Sabbath light, — 

If God doth in that temple dwell. 

Their fancied loss is gain ; 
Ye perfect listeners to His voice ! 

Say, is our pity vain ? 



ASYLUM AT HARTFORD. 241 

The American Asylum for the deaf and dumb, is 
a large and commodious edifice, in a commanding 
situation, at a short distance from the city of Hartford, 
in Connecticut. 

It has in front a spacious area, planted with young 
trees ; and the principal avenue of approach is bordered 
with flowers. In its rear are work-shops, where the 
pupils can obtain useful exercise for a portion of the 
interval not occupied in study. As all of these es- 
tablishments are under the direction of experienced 
masters, it is not one of the slightest advantages of the 
Institution, that a trade may be thus readily acquired, 
giving the means of future subsistence. 

In the building are eight recitation rooms, where 
the different classes, arranged according to grades of 
proficiency, daily assemble under their respective teach- 
ers ; each pupil writing the lesson, from their dictation, 
upon a large slate resting its frame against the wall. 
The fixedness of attention which they display is usually 
remarked by visitants ; while the regret which many 
of them testify when the hour of dismissal arrives, 
proves with what satisfaction the light of knowledae 
fills their long benighted minds. 

In the upper story is a dormitory for boys, one 
hundred and thirty feet in length, and fifty in breadth, 
from whose windows, on each of the four sides, are 
splendid prospects of a rich and beautifully varied 
country. Under the same roof is the chapel, where, 
every Sunday, portions of Scripture are explained, and 
16 



242 QUALIFICATIONS OF TEACHERS. 

religious instruction given by the teachers. There, 
also, the daily morning and evening devotions are 
performed. It is touching, even to tears, to see the 
earnest attention of that group of silent beings, the 
soul, as it were, sitting on the eye, while they watch 
every movement and sign of his hand, who is their 
medium of communication with the Father of Spirits. 

The Asylum is under the superintendence of a 
Principal, eight teachers, a steward, and matron. 
With regard to its course of instruction, it has been 
the wise policy of the Directors, " to procure the 
services of such men, and such only, as are willing to 
devote themselves permanently and entirely to this 
profession. It has also been their wish to hold out 
inducements to men of character, talent, and liberal 
education, which should lead them to engage in a 
life-long service. Exerting their main strength day 
after day in this one employment, and not having their 
thoughts divided by any ulterior plans of life, the 
chance is greater that their duties will be faithfully 
performed, and that the experience which they acquire, 
as one year follows another, in the difficult art of 
deaf-mute instruction, will render their services of 
more value to the Asylum, than those of a merely 
transient teacher could be expected to possess." Seven 
years are considered the full term for a course of edu- 
cation here, and it is a cause of regret that so few 
remain during the whole of that period. 

The female pupils, out of school hours, are occupied 




in various feminine employments, under the charge of 
the matron. Gathered into the same fold, and cheered 
by her kind patronage, sits the deaf, dumb, and blind 
girl, often busy with her needle, for whose guidance 
her exceedingly acute sense of feeling suffices, and in 
whose dexterous use seems the chief solace of her lot 
of silence, and of rayless night. 

There are at present in this Institution one hun 
dred and sixty-four pupils, and since its commence- 
ment, in 1817, between seven and eight hundred have 
shared the benefits of its shelter and instruction. 
Abundant proof has been rendered by them, that, when 
quickened by the impulse of education, their misfor- 
tune does not exclude them from participating in the 
active pursuits and satisfactions of life. By recurring 
to their history, after their separation from the Asylum, 
we find among them, farmers and mechanics, artists 
and seamen, teachers of deaf mutes in various and 
distant institutions, and what might at first view seem 
incompatible Vv'ith their situation, a merchant's clerk, 
the editor of a newspaper, a post-master, and county- 
recorder in one of our far Western States, and a clerk 
in the Treasury Department at Washington. 

More than one hundred of the pupils from this 
Asylum have entered into the matrimonial relation; 
and some, within the range of our own intimacy, might 
be adduced as bright examples of both conjugal and 
parental duty. 

One of its most interesting members, who entered 



244 AN INTERESTING PUPIL. 

at its first organization, and remained during the full 
course of seven years, was a daughter of the late Dr. 
Mason F. Cogswell, who was early called to follow 
her lamented father to the tomb. Her genius, her en- 
tire loveliness of disposition, and the happiness of her 
joyous childhood, caused the following reply to be 
made to a question originally proposed at the Institu- 
tion for the deaf and dumb in Paris ; " Les Sourd- 
Muets se trouvenl-ils malheureux? "* 



Oh ! could the kind inquirer gaze 

Upon thy brow, with gladness fraught, 

Its smile, like inspiration's rays, 

Would give the answer to his thought. 

And could he see thy sportive grace 
Soft blending with submission due, 

Or note thy bosom's tenderness 
To every just emotion true ; — 

Or, when some new idea glows 
On the pure altar of the mind, 

Observe the exulting tear that flows 
In silent ecstasy refined ; — 

Thy active life, thy look of bliss. 
The sparkling of thy magic eye, 

* *' Are the deaf and dumb unhappy ? "' 



ANSWER TO A QUESTION. 245 



Would all his skeptic doubts dismiss, 
And bid him lay his pity by, — 

To bless the ear that ne'er has known 
The voice of censure, pride, or art, 

Nor trembled at that sterner tone. 

Which, while it tortures, chills the heart ; 

And bless the lip that ne'er could tell 
Of human woes the vast amount, 

Nor pour those idle words that swell 
The terror of our last account. 

For sure the stream of silent course 
May flow as deep, as pure, as blest. 

As that which rplls in torrents hoarse. 
Or whitens o'er the mountain's breast, — 

As sweet a scene, as fair a shore. 
As rich a soil, its tide may lave. 

Then joyful and accepted pour 
Its tribute to the Eternal wave. 



246 NAHANT. 



NAHANT. 

Rude, rock-bound coast, where erst the Indian roamed, 
The iron shoulders of thy furrowed cliffs, 
Made black with smiting, still in stubborn force 
Resist the scourging wave. 

Bricrht summer suns 
In all the fervor of their noon-tide heat 
Obtain no power to harm thee, for thou wrapp'st 
Thy watery mantle round thee, ever fresh 
With ocean's coolness, and defy'st their rage. 

The storm-cloud is thy glory. 

Then, thou deck'st 
Thyself with majesty, and to its frown 
And voice of thunder, answerest boldly back. 
And from thy watch-towers hurl'st the blinding spray, 
While every dark and hollow cavern sounds 
Its trumpet for the battle. 

Yet, 'tis sweet 
Amid thy fissured rocks to ruminate, 
Marking thy grottos with mosaic paved 
Of glittering pebbles, and that balm to breathe 



NAHANT, 



247 



Which gives the elastic nerves a freer play, 
And tints the languid cheek with hues of health. 



The sand-beach and the sea ! 

Who can divine 
Their mystic intercourse, that day and night 
Surceaseth not ? On comes the thundering surge, 
Lifting its mountain-head, with menace stern, 
To whelm the unresisting ; but impelled 
In all the plenitude of kingly power 
To change its purpose of authority, 
Breaking its wand of might, doth hurry back ; 
And then, repenting, with new wrath return. 
Yet still that single, silvery line abides, 
Lowly, and fearless, and immutable. 
God gives it strength. 

So may He deign to grant 
The sand-line of our virtues, power to cope 
With all temptation. When some secret snare 
Doth weave its meshes round our trembling souls. 
That in their frailty turn to Him alone, 
So may He give us strength. 



Nahant is a rocky peninsula, stretching boldly into 
the ocean, and connected by beaches with the main 
land. Some of its cliffs have an elevation of a hun- 
dred feet, and wonderfully excavated rocks are the 
boundary of its shores. 

Tradition reports that its name was derived from 



248 ITS EARLt HISTORY. 

Nahaiita, an Indian princess, or the consort of a chief- 
tain. It was purchased with that sense of equity, 
which often marked similar transactions with the na- 
tives, first, in 1630, for a suit of clothes, then for two 
old coats, and lastly, for " two pestle stones." 

it is said to have been originally devoted to pastur- 
acre and to forest-ground uses, which its present 
aspect contradicts to a remarkable degree. ''It is 
well wooded with oaks, pines and cedars," wrote a 
historian of 163S, " also it hath good store of walnuts, 
ashes and elms." He who now traverses it, would be 
fain to wonder where they could have taken root, or 
how resisted the deleterious influence of the ocean- 
spray. Yet it seems that it was of old the scene of 
wolf-hunting on a grand scale, as there is a record 
that, in 1634, the militia of Lynn and Salem were 
drafted for this belligerent expedition ; and as such 
animals are not prone to choose the sterile, open rock 
for their habitation, the manes of those same hunted 
wolves corroborate the words of the historian. 

Yet, however vague may be the earlier legends of 
Nahant, there is no doubt of its being now the favorite 
resort of the beauty and fashion of the vicinity, as well 
as from distant parts. Its pure air is invigorating, 
even to exhilaration, and there is deep delight in watch- 
ing: the rolling of its magnificent surf, wandering amid 
the romantic arid sublime formation of its rocky coast, 
now scooped into caverns, and long, subterranean 
channels for the resounding wave, or towering into 
lofty columns, that mock the fury of the tempest. 



EGG-ROCK AND LYNN BEACH. 249 



A desolate islet, with the name of Egg-Rock, rears 
its precipitous head about two miles north-east of 
Nahant. Notwithstanding its rugged aspect, it has on 
its summit nearly three acres of arable land. It is 
the paradise of sea-birds, to whose jurisdiction it is 
yielded, on account of the difficulty and danger of 
approaching it. Hardy rovers have, however, occa- 
sionally surmounted these perils, and robbed the treas- 
ures of the poor, nestless gulls, with the true piratical 
spirit of the old Danish sea-kings. 

The principal beach of Nahant, connecting it with 
Lynn, is nearly two miles in length. It is a slightly 
curved line of sand, on whose eastern shore the 
surges of the unbroken Atlantic beat with great force 
and reverberation. It forms a delightful drive, or 
equestrian excursion, on whose smoothly polished sur- 
face the wheel or the horses' hoof leave no trace. 
Shells and fragments of coral are the frequent gifts of 
the receding wave, which, approaching with a show of 
vengeful wrath, retires like an appeased lover. 

The great hotel for the entertainment of visitants 
is near the south-eastern point of the promontory. It 
was built in 1820, of the native stone by which it is 
surrounded, and contains a sufficient number of apart- 
ments for a multitude of guests. From the double 
piazza that engirdles it, is a succession of grand and 
extensive prospects, and a bracing ocean atmosphere. 
When long rains prevail, the mist enwraps it in a 
curtain, like a great ship in the midst of the sea. 



258 ITS ORNAMENTS. 



Tlie' villao-e has several pleasant residences and 
boarding-houses, which have the agreeable appendages 
of verdure and trees. Beautiful cottages, the abodes 
of wealth and taste, are sprinkled here and there, the 
chief ornaments of the peninsula. 

In one of these, on the verge of the waters, the 
accomplished author of " Ferdinand and Isabella," 
and the " Conquest of Mexico," passes the summer 
months, with his parents and family. None who have 
partaken the hospitalities of that delightful retreat, 
will forcret its rare combinations of ao;e and wisdom still 
retaining the vivacity of youth, high intellect without 
pride, and the sweet developments of the most sacred 
affections. 

The fine cottage of Mr. Tudor, though occupying 
a site unfavorable to vesjetable life, both from the 
bleak winds and saline atmosphere, is still, by perse- 
verance and munificent expenditure, surrounded by the 
charms of a more cono-enial clime. Within its en- 
closures flowers blossom, clustering vines climb the trel- 
lises, and trees perfect their fruits, furnishing another 
proof that the energy of man may overcome the 
resistance of nature and of the elements. 



ROSE-MOUNT. 



251 



ROSE-MOUNT 



A NEIGHBORLY EPISTLE. 



Hartford, April, 1843. 

To the Lady of Rose-Mount, I've long wished to pay 
Such thanks as were due for her musical lay, 
But many a care, with importunate mien, 
Would thrust itself me and my lyre between ; 
And lastly, the hydra of house-cleaning came. 
With dripping fingers, and cheeks of flame ; 
Pictures, and vases, and flower-pots fled. 
At her flashing eye, and her frown of dread, 
While tubs and brushes, with Vandal haste. 
Like a mob of Chartists, their betters displaced. 
And she at the head of that motley crowd, 
A brandished broom for her sceptre proud. 
Held all in an uproar, from sun to sun, 
Then went off in a rao-e, ere her work was done. 
Keep clear of her, dearest, as long as you can, 
She's a terror, in sooth, both to woman and man. 
And husbands, especially, quake when they see 
Their sanctums exposed to her ministry. 



252 ■ ROSE-MOUNT. 



Books and papers, they learn to their cost, 

If ''put in order ^^ are fain to be lost, 

And though wax-like neatness may reign around, 

Yet the things that are wanted can never be found, 

And a test of their temper Socratic 't will prove. 

If they press through this ordeal in patience and love. 

From the grasp of this terrible vixen set free, 

How sweet was the scenery of Rose-Mount to me, 

When yesterday, soon as my dinner was o'er. 

My sunshade I spread, and set off for your door ; 

And though disappointed that you were away, 

Found many briglit objects, my walk to repay ; 

For there, in her own little carriage was seen 

Your baby in state, like a young fairy queen, 

The lawn with its plants, and spring-blossoms so gay, 

And she, in her beauty, more lovely than they. 

Then she told, in a voice that like music did melt, 

The names of the pair who in paradise dwelt. 

And so many fine phrases had learned to repeat. 

And each guest with such gentle politeness to greet. 

That all were surprised, when her date they surveyed, 

That in scarce eighteen months she such progress had 

made. 
As for me, while I gazed on a picture so rare. 
The landscape, the child, and the residence fair, • 
How many, thought I, if their pathway below 
Thus sprinkled with gems and with flowerets should 

glow. 
Would be tempted on earth all their treasures to rest, 
And ne'er have a sicrh for a reorion more blest. 



ROSE-MOUNT. 253 



But you, with a heart ever upward and true, 

Will keep, I am trusting, their Giver in view, 

And be made by His gifts still more fitting and pure, 

For that realm where all beauties and blessings endure. 



Hartford, though less celebrated for beauty of land- 
scape than its sister city, New Haven, possesses some 
fine objects, both of nature and art, which have perhaps 
not been fully appreciated. A deep, rich verdure is 
its birthright, and the loveliness of its surrounding 
heights is admitted by all. 

Many of the residences on Asylum Hill are con- 
spicuous for their elegance and grace. Among these, 
Rose-Mount, the seat of James Dixon, Esq., is partic- 
ularly distinguished by the extent and arrangement of 
its grounds. Fourteen acres, highly cultivated, are 
divided into lawns, gardens, and groves, and embel- 
lished with parterres of flowers, hedges, and a variety 
of shrubs, fruits, and forest-trees. All is found here 
to constitute a deliorhtful retirement for the man of 
letters and of taste, where cultivated intellect may 
enjoy the luxuries of literature, or woo the willing 
muse. 

The beautiful elevation of Washington Street also ex- 
hibits acluster of edifices, of finely varied architectures, 
from the ornamented cottage to the stately mansion. 
In their vicinity, the Retreat for the Insane, a noble 
and spacious building, rears its head, and extends its 
range of offices and pleasure-grounds. Its class of 



254 INSANE RETREAT AT HARTFORD. 



scenery seems well adapted, if external objects may 
ever produce that effect, to " medicate a mind diseased, 
or pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow." 

It accommodates at present about ninety patients, 
and two wings are in the progress of erection, to 
allow the reception of eighty additional ones. Its 
inmates have the constant care of a medical Superin- 
tendent, the religious instruction of a Chaplain, and 
the services of a Steward and Matron. We borrow 
the language of the former, to describe some of the 
efforts made to dispel the melancholy, so often the 
attendant of disordered intellect. 

" We present them entertainment, in which the 
best and wisest may at times indulge, or to which all 
might profitably resort, under the tedium of convales- 
cence from this, or any other disease. They are not 
limited to the patients ; all our family, the resident 
officers of the Institution, and the attendants, partici- 
pate in them. Our children mingle in the dance, and 
take their parts in the concert. The sewing-circle, 
the reading and musical parties, are held two afternoons 
of each week, under the direction of the Matron, who, 
excellent everywhere, exerts here, from her cheerfulness 
of manners and kindness of heart, the happiest influ- 
ence. These parties have met in the parlors connected 
with the female wing, except during the pleasant 
afternoons of summer, when by common consent they 
were held upon the lawn. Here our female patients 
form groups beneath the shade, some sewing or knit- 



I 



SUPERINTENDENT AND CHAPLAIN. 255 

ting, others listening to an interesting story, or socially 
conversing ; the nurse and the patient, the sane and 
the insane, so mingling together, that they are hardly 
to be distinguished, and oftentimes, to the amusement 
of all, mistaken for each other by the stranger. Such 
a scene looks very unlike the condition of the insane 
in those days, when, in the language of a quaint old 
Scotch writer, ' we committed the better sort of the 
mad people to the care and taming of chirurgeons, 
and the inferior to the scourge.' An hour previous 
to evening prayers, on every pleasant afternoon, in the 
summer and autunin, our female patients, oftentimes, 
with scarcely an exception, have joined us in a ramble 
about our garden and grounds, for the tasteful planning 
and ornamenting of which, we are so much indebted 
to the benevolent foresight of some of the founders of 
the Institution." 

The intercourse of the Chaplain is also calculated 
to exercise a benio;n and healinor influence. "He 
appears among the inmates of the Retreat, as their 
sympathizing friend. He exchanges with them the 
customary civilities of social life. He listens to their 
conversation, and lets them see that he is interested 
in it. He often introduces other than grave and 
serious subjects, adapted to ajfford rational instruction, 
or innocent entertainment ; nor can he discover that 
by doing this he is exposed to any disparagement of 
the proper dignity of his office, by the want of courtesy 
and respect on the part of those whom he seeks to 



256 BENEVOLENCE OF THE SYSTEM 

benefit. It is indeed by pursuing such a course, that 
he hopes to avail himself of suitable opportunities 
when they offer, and they not unfrequently do offer, of 
presenting in the most favorable manner the simple 
and consoling truths of the Gospel." 

A select library, and collection of prints, are sources 
of gratification to the patients, and the commodious 
carriage of the establishment, is in constant requisition 
during fine weather, to give them pleasant excursions 
around the city and its environs. A very large and 
productive garden, whose vegetable wealth conduces 
greatly to the comfort of the large household, furnishes 
also an agreeable and healthful mode of exercise for 
those disposed to share in such occupation. 

This Institution, from its commencement twenty 
years since, has been blessed by the recovery of a 
great proportion of the sufferers entrusted to its care. 
During the past year, more than fifty have been 
restored to their homes, with that joy which those 
only can imagine, who have tasted the bitterness of 
such separation. 

Though a description of the Retreat has surely no 
connection with the title of this article, yet in noticing 
some of the objects that beautify our city, we trust to 
be forgiven for introducing the beauty of that benevo- 
lence which is the glory of any people, and which in 
this instance devotes itself to the miticjation of one of 
the severest ills that can afflict humanity. 



MONTPELIER. 257 



MONTPELIER. 

THE SEAT OF THE LATE JAMES MADISON, PRESIDENT 
OF THE UNITED STATES. 



How fair, beneath Virginia's sky, 
Montpelier strikes the traveller's eye, 
Emeroino; from its forest-bower. 
Like feudal chieftain's ancient tower, 
With parks and lawns and gardens drest, 
In peaceful verdure proudly blest. 

What blended beauties cheer the sight ! 
The distant mountain's misty height. 
The nearer prospect's cultured face, 
The sylvan temple's attic grace. 
The locust copse, where warblers throng, 
And gaily pour the unfettered song, 
The flowers in bright profusion seen, 
The luscious fig's luxuriant green. 
The clasping vine, whose clusters fair. 
Seem as of genial France the care, 
17 



258 



MONTPELIER. 



The bright-eyed pheasant, beauteous guest, 
The eastern bird with gorgeous vest, 
Still for his mimic speech carest, 
The curtaining jessamine, that showers 
Rich fragrance o'er the nightly bowers, 
Those halls, whose varied stores impart 
The classic pencil's magic art, 
The chisel's life-bestowing power, 
The lore that cheats the studious hour, 
And music's strains, that vainly vie 
With the touched spirit's melody ; 
How strong the tissued spells that bind 
The admiring eye and grateful mind. 

Here Wisdom rests in sylvan shade, 
That erst an empire's council's swayed. 
And Goodness, whose persuasive art 
So justly won that empire's heart, 
And Piety, with hoary hair. 
Which rising o'er this Eden fair, 
Beholds, by mortal foot untrod, 
A brighter Eden with its God. 



Montpelier ! these thy name have set 
A gem in memory's coronet. 
Whose lustre ruthless time shall spare 
Till from her brow that crown he tear, 
Till from her book that page he rend. 
Which of a stranger made a friend. 



MOTHER OF MADISON. 259 

Our visit to the " Ancient Dominion," though many 
years since, has left pleasant traces, over which time 
has had no effacing power ; for it was made at that 
sunny period of life, when hope and joy tinge every 
object with their radiant dies. The impressions made 
by Virginian hospitality were truly delightful. We 
found, with surprise, how immediately the painful 
reserve of strangers vanished before the charm of 
southern manners, and could not but wish that the 
intercourse between the distant sections of our country 
were more frequent and fraternal. 

Montpelier had much in itself, and its adjuncts, to 
interest and repay the pilgrim to its shades. Yet 
from the fine pictures and extensive library he would 
find himself involuntarily turning to their distinguished 
Master, who, though in feeble health and somewhat 
advanced in years, attracted every one by the powers of 
his conversation, and the profound wisdom of his 
remarks. Courteous, and unassuming in his manners, 
he imparted, as it were, spontaneously, the treasures of 
a mind peculiarly rich in historic lore, and upright 
and luminous in its conclusions. 

Under his roof, the object of unspeakable tenderness 
and respect, was his mother, who had then completed 
her ninetieth year. She had paid great attention to 
the early culture and formation of his mind, and had 
herself tauHit him to read, usincr as his first book of 
instruction the Holy Scriptures, She was a lady of 
true excellence and dignity of character, and was 




solaced to the latest hour of life by his devoted filial 
affection. 

The Lady of President Madison, none could visit 
vrithout grateful recollections. The kindness of her 
welcome would not be forgotten, nor that goodness 
of heart which breathed a magic influence upon all 
around. She was encircled in her elegant retirement 
with objects congenial to her taste, — the charms of 
cultivated nature, and the music of birds. Some of • 
the most rare species of her winged friends she cher- 
ished in an aviary, and among those who ranged at 
will was a favorite Macaw, of shrewd character, and 
singularly splendid train and plumage. Blossoms and 
flowering trees sprang up beneath these sunny skies 
in luxuriance and profusion. The Pride of China 
expanded its delicate foliage beside the window, the 
Jessamine climbed up to the sleeping apartments, 
diffusing its rich perfume, and the Multiflora on every 
side cheered the eye with its countless clusters. 

When called from this fair retreat by the election 
of her husband to the Chief Magistracy of the Nation, 
her queenly manners, and perfect affability, won admi- 
ration at every levee where she presided. During the 
eight years of his continuance in office, she filled the 
station of the highest lady in the land, to the satisfac- 
tion of all, and by her true kindness of heart, concili- 
ated good will and lasting remembrance. " She never 
forgot," says one of her biographers, " a name she had 
once heard, nor a, face she had once seen, nor the per- 



RESPECT PAID TO GOODNESS. • 261 

sonal circumstances connected with every individual 
of her acquaintance." 

When, after her widowhood, she was induced by the 
solicitation of her relatives and friends to leave her 
loved seclusion at Montpelier, and revisit the Cap- 
ital, " her saloon," said a distinguished statesman, 
" was as constantly thronged by Wit, Genius, and 
Learning, by all that was noble of American, or distin- 
guished of Foreign Society, as when, in th-e presidential 
mansion, she had been the idol and lady-patron." 

She still continues in her advanced age, both at her 
Virorinian retirement and her winler residence at 
Washington, to conciliate respect and affection by the 
enduring charm of unaffected goodness. 



262 THE NEWPORT TOWER. 



THE NEWPORT TOWER. 

Dark, lonely Tower, amid yon Eden-isle, 
Which, as a gem, fair Narragansett wears 
Upon her heaving breast, thou lift'st thy head, 
A mystery and paradox, to mock 
The curious- throng. 

Say, reared the plundering hand 
Of the fierce buccaneer thy massy walls, 
A treasure-fortress for his blood-stained gold? 
Or wrouorht the beincrs of an earlier race 
To form thy circle, while in wonder gazed 
The painted Indian? 

Fancy spreads her wing 
Around thy time-scathed brow, and deeply tints 
Her fairy-scroll, while hoar Antiquity 
In silence frowns upon the aimless flight. 



Thou wilt not show the secret of thy birth ! 
Nor do I know why we need question thee 
So strictly on that point ; save that the creed 
Of Yankee people is, that through the toil 
Of questioning, there cometh light, and gain 
Of knowledore to the mind. 

We see thou art 



THE NEWPORT TOWER. 263 



A right substantial, well-preserved old Tower, 
Let that suffice us. 

Some there are, who say 
Thou wert an ancient wind-mill. 

Be it so ! 
Our pilgrim-sires must have been much in love 
With extra labor, thus to gather stones. 
And patient rear thy Scandinavian arch, 
And build thine ample chamber, and uplift 
Thy shapely column, for the gadding winds 
To play vagaries with. 

In those hard times 
I trow king Philip gave them other work, 
Than to deck dancing-halls, and lure the blasts 
From old Eolus' cave. 

Had'st thou the power, 
I think thou'dst laugh right heartily to see 
The worthy farmers, with their sacks of corn. 
Mistaking thy profession, as of old 
Don Quixote did mistake thine ancestor : 
If haply such progenitor thou hadst. 



But still, grey Ruin, though they lightly speak, 
I fain would honor thee, as rhymers do. 
And 'neath thy shadow weave my noteless song. 
I said I 'd do thee honor, if I might. 
For thou art old. And whatsoever bears 
The stamp of hoary time, and hath not been 



264 THE NEWPORT TOWEPw 

The minister of evil, claims from us 
Some tribute of respect. 

But, most of all, 
Those ancient forms that lodgre a livincr soul, 
Bearing their passport from the Almighty hand 
Graved on the furrowed brow, and silver hair, — 
Yes, most of all to them our hearts would yield 
That tender reverence, which so well befits 
Them to receive, and us with love to pay. 



Newport, the garden-isle of Narragansett, received 
from some of the British officers, durinor its investment 
by their troops, the name of the " Eden of America." 
Those who have enjoyed its delightful scenery during 
the summer months, rode upon its beaches, and in- 
haled its balmy atmosphere, will scarcely deem these 
epithets exaggerated. 

It is a spot to be remembered for years, with a fond 
desire of again beholding it. Thus, it is cherished by 
me, as a fine picture in the gallery of the mind, mel- 
lowed by time, though its minuter tints have faded, 
and been merged in the shadow of years. 

Yet the Old Tower still stands prominently forth on 
memory's tablet, as when first beheld crowning its 
verdant eminence, and looking down upon the billowy 
bay. Its origin has given rise to many opinions and 
theories, from the matter-of-fact man, who perseveres 
in design atincr it as the " old stone wi7id-miIL" to the 



I 



THE NORSE-aiEN. 265 



erudite scholar, who discovers in it the architectural 
marks of the ancient Norse-men ; or the child of im- 
aorination, taking for a text-book Longfellow's beauti- 
ful ballad of the '' Skeleton in Armor." To a coun- 
try of recent date, almost destitute of the vestiges 
of antiquity, and disposed to prize them in proportion 
to their scarcity, it is quite a gain to have any object 
which admits of such description. "The people have 
been disputing these twenty years," said Goethe, " as to 
who is the greatest, Schiller or myself. Let them go, 
and be thankful that they have such fellows to dispute 
about." 

The discovery of our Northern Continent by the 
Scandinavians, about the year 9G4, two centuries pre- 
vious to the expedition of Madoc, the Welsh prince, 
is matter of grave history. Irving, in his " Life of 
Columbus," derives proof from the Sagas, or Chroni- 
cles of the north, that, beside their settlements in 
Greenland, they established themselves around the 
river St, Lawrence, and in Newfoundland, called by 
them Eslotiland. That they penetrated also into Nova 
Scotia and New England, seems to rest on stronger 
foundation than conjecture. 

Professor Rafin says : " Of the ancient structure at 
Newport, from such characteristics as remain, we can 
scarcely form any other inference than one, in which 
I am persuaded that all who are familiar v.ith Old 
Northern Architecture will concur, that this building 
was erected at a period decidedly not later than the 



266 OBLIVION. 



twelfth century. That it could not have been intended 
for a wind-mill, is what an architect will easily dis- 



cover." 



Those, however, who adhere tenaciously to the " old 
wind-mill " creed, may derive consolation from a 
somewhat pedantic passage of Sir Thomas Browne. 
"Oblivion," quoth he, "reclineth semi-somnous, mak- 
ing puzzles of Titanian erections, and turning old glo- 
ries into dreams, while History sinketh down beside her. 
The traveller asketh of her, amazedly, who builded 
these? And she mumbleth something, but what it is, 
he heareth not." 



AUTUMN ON STATEN ISLAND. 267 



AUTUMN ON STATEN ISLAND. 



The autumnal breeze was sharp, when first I sought 

Thy friendship, sweetest Ishind of the main, 
Yet still in sunny nooks, with verdure fraught. 

Wore lingering flowers of summer's blissful reign, 
Whose grateful fragrance cheered the faded plain, 

And sheltered knoll, that seemed the Frost to fear ; 
For that invader, with his fatal train. 

Had touched the aspiring boughs with umber sere, 
And, stern and cold, announced the funeral of the year. 

Yes ; that prophetic flush, so strange and brief. 

Which, like the hectic, shows the Spoiler nigh. 
Hung here and there, upon the forest leaf, 

And tinged the maple with a blood-red die, 
While through the groves there came a mournful sigh 

Of hollow winds, bewailing Nature's doom ; 
But still the brightness of the unclouded sky 

Did with its spirit-glance reprove the gloom, 
Like that immortal Faith which shrinks not at the tomb. 



268 AUTUMN ON STATEN ISLAND. 

But thou, blest Isle, when verdant seasons die, 

Hast many a charm, which change can ne'er impair, 
And all that meets the mirror of thine eye 

Seems softened like a dream. For thee, with care, 
The great, proud City, beaming smiles doth wear, 

And shroud in distance, every darkened trace, 
Which penury, or pain, or guilt doth bear, 

And, like a lover, show its fairest face. 
Lifting its mighty head in majesty and grace. 

So I have throned thee in mine inmost heart,' 

Fair Dauo^hter of the Sea, around whose breast 
The sparkling waters meet, and never part, 

But tuneful sing thee to thy nightly rest; 
Or if, by wintry blast and storm opprest, 

Fierce at thy feet the surging billows roll. 
Thou, in serenity and glory drest, 

Dost still the madness of their mood control, 
And strong in beauty's power, disarm the wrathful soul. 



The suburbs of the City of New York present an 
unusual variety of romantic scenery, easily accessible 
to its inhabitants 4 and that which Staten Island exhibits 
is not among the least diversified or imposing. Indeed, 
it is a most fascinating and delightful spot, fanned by 
the purest breezes from the sea. 

The fine residences of New Brighton give its shore 
the splendid appearance of a city, w^hile from its cliffs, 



VARIED PROSrCCTS. 269 

three hundred feet in height, the views of earth and 
ocean are truly magnificent. Its peculiar features have 
caused it frequently to be compared to the Isle of 
Wight, though inferior in wildness and grandeur. 

A powerful pencil would be tasked to describe its 
diversified prospects, for instance from the Telegraph 
Station, the Quarantine, the Clove, or the deserted Fort 
Tompkins, whose outline and walls might almost cause 
it to pass for a modern Colliseum. New York, with its 
dense masses of architecture, and the shores of Long 
Island, exuberant in fertility, add their contrast of beau- 
ty, while the peninsular coast of New Jersey approaches 
as if to seek the embrace of its beautiful neighbor. 

A short stay on Staten Island, in the autumn of 
1843, gave a greater degree of familiarity with its 
scenery, than is usually acquired in a first visit, through 
the kind attentions of hospitable friends, who every 
day exhibited to us some new department of their re- 
gion of beauty. In traversing it, you find interspersed 
among humble cottages, in the cultured vale, lofty 
hills, crowned by graceful mansions, and here and 
there a low-browed church, claiming reverence both 
from its sacredness and its antiquity. 

The entrance to the town of Richmond, from the 
green hills that enclose it, as in a cup, descending 
which, you look down upon winding streams, green 
vallies, and quiet habitations, — is very beautiful. The 
perpetual gliding of sails, and the rapid movement of 
steamers, brilliant with their evening lights, give to the 



270 



EMOTIONS OF THE VOYAGER. 



prospect of the surrounding sea continual variety 
and interest. The Nanows, that watery pathway, 
throucrh which the voyager to distant climes passes, 
his heart broken with the tender f\\rewells of beloved 
ones, and by which he returns, in joy unutterable, every 
thoucrht filled to overflowincr with the imagery of home 
and native land, can never be viewed with indifference 
by those who have felt these emotions. It was a pleas- 
ant thing, from a commanding height, to see the 
Great Western, a dark, gigantic mass, go forth on her 
ocean pilgrimage, trying her powers of speed with a 
small steamer, which, at their disappearance on the 
misty horizon, had the advantage of her Goliah com- 
petitor. 

An institution onStaten Island for the relief of sea- 
men attracts the attention of strangers, and I borrow 
a description of it from the pen of Mrs. L. M. Child, 
acrreeable and forcible. 

"One of the most interesting places on this island 
is the Sailor's Snug Harbor. A few years ago, a gen- 
tleman, by the name of Randall, left a small farm that 
rented for two or three hundred dollars, at the corner 
of Eleventh Street and Broadway, for the benefit of 
old and wornout sailors. This property increased in 
value, until it enabled the trusteefs to purchase a farm 
on Staten Island, and erect a noble stone edifice, as 
a hospital for disabled seamen ; with an annual income 
of nearly 30,000 dollars. The building has a very 
handsome exterior, and is large, airy, and convenient. 



sailor's snug harbor. 271 

The front door opens into a spacious hall, at the ex- 
tremity of which flowers and evergreens are arranged 
one above another, like the terrace of a conservatory ; 
and from the entries above you look down into this 
pretty work of ' greenery.' The whole aspect of 
things is extremely pleasant, with the exception of 
the sailors themselves. They reminded me of what some 
one said of the Greenwich pensioners, ' They seem to 
be waiting for death ! ' No outward comfort seemed 
wanting ; but they stood alone in the world, no wives, no 
children. Connected by no link with the ever active 
Present, a monotonous Future stretched before them, 
made more dreary by its contrast with the keen excite- 
ment and ever-shifting variety of their past life of 
peril and pleasure. I have always thought too little 
provision was made for this lassitude of the mind, in 
most benevolent institutions. Men, accustomed to 
excitement, cannot do altogether without it. It is a 
necessity of nature, and should be ministered to in all 
innocent forms. Those poor old tars should have 
sea-songs, and instrumental music, once in a while, to 
stir their sluggish blood, and a feast might be given on 
great occasions, to younger sailors, from temperance 
boarding-houses, that the Past might have a chance to 
hear from the Present. We perform but a half charity 
when we comfort the body and leave the soul desolate." 
" The sailor cannot be ignorant, without being su- 
perstitious too. The Infinite comes continually before 
him, in the sublimest symbols of sight and sound. 



272 OPINIONS OF MRS. CHILD. 

He does not know the lancjuaore, but he feels the tone. 
Goethe has told us, in most beautiful allegory, of two 
bridges, whereby earnest souls pass from the Finite to 
the Infinite. One is a rainbow, which spans the dark 
river, and this is Faith ; the other is a shadow cast 
quite over by the giant Superstition, when he stands 
between the setting sun and the unknown shore. 

" Blessings on all friendly hands that are leading 
the sailor to the rainbow bridge. His spirit is made 
reverential in the great temple of Nature, resounding 
with the wild voices of the winds, and strange music 
of the storm-organ ; too long has it been left trembling 
and shivering on the bridge of shadows. For him, too, 
the rainbow spans the dark stream, and becomes at 
last a bridge of gems." 



EVENING DEVOTIONS IN A PRISON. 273 



EVENING DEVOTIONS IN A PRISON, 



The silent curtains of the night 
Our mournful cell surround, 

God's dwelling is in perfect light, 
His mercy hath no bound. 

His blessed sun, with cheering smile, 

Dispenses good to all, 
Even on the sinful and the vile 

His daily bounties fall. 

The way of wickedness is hard, 

Its bitter fruits we know, 
Shame in this world is its reward, 

And in the future, woe. 

Yet Thou, who see'st us while we pay 

Our penalty of pain, 
Cast not our souls condemned away, 

Nor let our prayer be vain. 

18 



274 EVENING DEVOTIONS IN A PRISON. 

Deep root, within a soil subdued, 

Let true repentance take, 
And be its fruits a life renewed, 

For the Redeemer's sake. 

Uplift our spirits from the ground, 

Give to our darkness, light; 
Oh, Thou ! whose mercies have no bound. 

Preserve us safe this night. 



All researches into the history of earlier ages, result 
in giving prominence to prisons as among the strong- 
est engines of tyranny. Despotic princes found them 
convenient retreats for the conquered foe, the noble, 
whose estates they wished to confiscate, or the rival, 
whose eye was upon their throne. The legends of 
baronial dungeons sleep in the darkness of feudal 
times. In every age the oppressor hath, at his will, 
" held the body bound" ; and none may compute the 
number of souls, whose only liberator was death. 
Though the progress of civilization and refinement 
mitigated the savage features of these penal institu- 
tions, yet it was long ere humanity dreamed of making 
their discipline salutary. Disregard to the moral 
health of those who, as a gangrene, had been divided 
from society, still prevailed ; and promiscuous associa- 
tion rendered the novice in guilt, as hardened as the 
hoary offender. 

For the praise of modern times, and for the mild 



HOPE OF REFORMATION. 275 

nature of our own government, has been reserved that 
benevolence, which, in sequestrating the criminal, 
keeps before his eyes the bright im^age of returning 
virtue, and baptizes his place of punishment with the 
hope of heaven. If to appease the anger of an offend- 
ed community, Justice must purge, as it were, with 
fire, the soul that hath sinned, Mercy forgets not 
to sit by as a refiner, pronouncing when the dross 
is fully separated, and, in the sacred words of inspira- 
.tion, " counting the Law as a schoolmaster, that bring- 
eth unto Christ." How would Howard have rejoiced 
had such a prospect dawned upon him, while hazard- 
ing his life, to " dive into the depth of dungeons, to 
plunge amid the infection of hospitals, to survey the 
mansions of sorrow and pain, to take the gage of 
misery, depression, and contempt, to remember the 
forofotten, to attend to the neolected, to visit the for- 
saken, to compare and collate the distresses of all men 
in all countries." 

The pens of some of our distinguished writers have 
enforced the feasibility of making prisons adjuncts in 
the reformation of vice, and in several of our States 
buildings have been erected on this principle, and the- 
ories in some measure reduced to practice. Among 
these institutions, that at Wethersfield, Connecticut, 
stands conspicuous, in the opinion of foreigners as well 
as of natives, for the adaptation of its structure, the 
wisdom of its policy, and the results of its discipline. 

It was at the close of a long, cloudless summer's 



276 DEGRADING EFFECTS OF VICE. 

day, when I first attended, with a small party of stran- 
gers and friends, its hour of evening prayer. The 
richness of the surrounding landscape, the beauty 
of the prospect from its lofty, mural promenade, the 
broad, quiet river, the distant, gliding sail, the waving 
foliage, the hallowed spire, embosomed amid graceful 
elms, — all seemed to soothe the mind into calm de- 
light, rather than prepare it for painful contemplation. 
But the harsh sound of locks and bolts convinced us 
that guilt was near, — that guilt which defaces both 
the fair creation and the immortal soul. 

A bell struck, and the convicts came from their re- 
spective work-shops, and arranged themselves in lines 
in the spacious and strongly enclosed area. There 
they underwent a strict examination from the guard, 
who ascertained that none had secreted about his per- 
son any weapon of destruction or offence. It was 
humiliating to see powerful and athletic men holding 
out their arms for this search with the subdued look 
of a helpless child, Methought, salutary lessons might 
here be gathered for the young and tempted, and they 
be taught to wage a firmer warfare with Vice, after 
thus witnessing its degradation and misery. 

Then each prisoner placed his hands upon the 
shoulders of the one who preceded him, and all 
marched rapidly, with the lock-step, towards the 
chapel. There, seated side by side, were seen the 
man of full strength, the boy of fourteen summers, 
and him of hoary hairs, who, sentenced for life, sur- 



ABSENCE OF NOBLE LINEAMENTS. 277 

veyed, motionless and passionless, objects to which his 
dim eye and seared heart had been long inured. I 
bent a scrutinizing glance upon the mass of heads and 
faces in this prison-home, to discover if possible some 
indication of talent or nobleness, for we know that 
the whirlwind of passion hath but too often driven into 
crime those whom nature and education had fitted for 
a higher destiny. But there was an absence of those 
IjLneaments which reveal the higher developments of 
intellect, or the promptings of a heavenward soul. 
Sin had been there with its levelling process, effacing 
mental elevation and spiritual beauty. 

Every brow was raised to the Chaplain, as he sim- 
plified a portion of that Book, which is a "light to 
those who sit in darkness," and lifted up his prayer to 
Him who " blotteth out transgression." In that pro- 
longed gaze, was there not some shadow of hope, that 
" where sin had abounded, grace might much more 
abound " 1 How impressive was the supplicating 
voice of that man of God, standing, as it were, like 
the prophet, with his censer, " between the living and 
the dead," that the plague might be stayed. 

At the close of the devotional exercises, the prison- 
ers passed out in order, to their several ranges of 
dormitories, each taking in his hand, at the proper 
depository, a wooden vessel, containing his coarse, but 
nutritious evening repast. These movements were 
made with such regularity and celerity, that one mo- 
ment they might be seen each standing at the door of 



278 INSTANCE OF A CONVICT. 

his solitary cell, the next all had vanished, and the 
sharp spring of more than a hundred locks was their 
vesper-tone, their sad " good-night." 

Among the trains of thought that these scenes ex- 
cited, was the consciousness, that each of these fallen 
beings had once a mother, to whom his infancy was 
inexpressibly dear. When she pressed his velvet lip 
to hers, or lulled him to rest upon her bosom, surely, 
her visions of delight had no imagery like this. Yet, 
could we read the secret soul of the erring tenants 
of this abode, might we not discover some maternal 
precept still maintaining a place in their memory ? 
Perhaps striving to neutralize the black and bitter ele- 
ments of evil ? 

Among the inmates of this institution, is one who 
has plunged into many varieties of sin, and been a 
wanderer over the face of the earth. Retribution met 
him in appalling forms, disgrace and suffering became 
his portion, but he passed through all with a hardened 
mind. Nothing, he affirms, in his whole life, has ever 
made him feel serious, but the last words of his 
mother. When a boy of twelve years old, he was sum- 
moned to her bed, to receive her dying counsel. In 
feeble and tender tones, she told him that she was 
about to leave him, and earnestly enjoined him to seek 
the Saviour, to take care of his soul, and to meet her 
in heaven. She continued clasping his hand, until 
her own was cold in death. For nearly half a cen- 
tury afterwards, tiiis miserable being was pressing on 



MATERNAL INFLUENCE. 279 

through a course of crime, too revolting for description. 
Still he confesses that he was never able utterly to 
drive from his mind the admonitions of his mother, 
nor to think of them, amid his deepest obduracy, 
without emotion. 

Is not this a peculiar point of view, from which to 
contemplate maternal influence? The good and the 
wise take pleasure in expressing their obligations to 
this hallowed source. Bacon traced back to it, as to 
a shaded fountain, his intellectual eminence. Wash- 
incrton acknowledcred it as the teacher of his self- 
control, that rudiment of his greatness. Edwards 
referred the germ of his piety to the prayers of the 
saintly one who gave him birth. But here is a differ- 
ent suffrage, a voice as from the lower parts of the 
earth, bearing concurrent testimony. Such a disclo- 
sure gains force from its rare occurrence. Virtue 
and purity are willing to reveal the origin of those 
principles, which have guided .them, but it is diffi- 
cult to extort from wickedness, commendation and 
honor for the precepts which it has violated. 

Here is an instance of a man plunging into the vor- 
tex of guilt, and laboring to dismiss from his mind 
everything just and holy. Still, by his side has walked, 
to his soul has clung, with his conscience has wrestled, 
the voice of a dying mother. It has prevailed some- 
times to soften a heart, which was like a " piece of 
the nether millstone." May it not yet prove like the 
rod of Moses to the flinty rock of Horeb ? 



280 DIVINE AID. 



Mother ! who with ineffable tenderness, art bending 
over the babe that heaven hath given thee, knowest 
thou what shall befall it in this evil world ? Parents, 
who gaze with pride on the budding promise of the 
fair boy, whom you have nurtured, know ye what may 
be his lot in the latter days ? Redouble your efforts, 
deepen your trust in the Eternal, that the evening 
prayer of your son rise not from the prison-house 
of guilt, when you are motionle&s in the grave. 




MOONLIGHT AT SACHEM'S WOOD. 

NEW HAVEN, CONNECTICUT. 

Oh, Moon at Sachem's Wood ! Whoe'er hath seen 
Thy Hquid lustre through yon lofty oaks. 
Broad-armed and beautiful, floating serene 
O'er copse, and lawn, and hedge, and snowy dome, 
Will never lose the picture from his heart. 
Beyond, are sacred spires, and clustering roofs, 
And on the horizon's edge, yon rude, grey rocks, 
Like two time-tried and trusty sentinels. 
Which toward the orient and the setting sun 
Keep watch and ward. 

How oft beneath these shades 
Where now the moonbeam trembles o'er the turf, 
A hoary-headed and a bright eyed man 
Walked with a younger one, in converse sweet, 
Heart knit to heart. The poet and the sage, 
The father and the son. 

Slow Time had made 
No chasm between them, since those brighter days, 



282 MOONLIGHT AT SACHEM's WOOD. 

When ardent manhood smiled on infancy, 
Save that blest change which deepened love doth bring 
To grave experience. Sweet it was to see 
Communion so entire. 

The elder laid, 
Just ere the snows of fourscore winters fell, 
His patriot head beneath yon hallowed mound. 
And slept as good men do. 

But where is he, 
Whose filial virtues taught that heart of age 
A second spring? whose tuneful numbers charmed 
His listening country's ear ? 

From his fair home. 
From these loved trees, whence poured the nesting birds 
Their mellow descant, suddenly he went 
A lonely journey, to return no more. 
Yet there w'ere deeper melodies, than those 
Of warblers mid the summer boughs, that well 
He knew to wake : — songs of the heart, and thrills 
Of fond affection, with the dulcet tones 
Of husband and of sire. 

They died with him. 
Words may not tell the silence and the void, 
Beside his hearth-stone, nor the bitter ofrief 
That long around his cherished image wept. 



I 



Yet well it is to be remembered thus, 
Poet and friend. 

Without it, fame were poor. 



MOONLIGHT AT SACHEm's WOOD. 283 



Even though her clarion swelled from pole to pole. 
Without the virtues that do bring the tear 
Into the loving eye, when life is o'er, 
That life itself were but a gift abused. 



Among the ornaments of the beautiful city of New- 
Haven, is the residence bearing the name of Sachem's 
Wood. It is situated on an eminence, terminating a 
broad avenue of stately elms, adorned by pleasant and 
tasteful habitations. It is a spacious edifice, distin- 
guished by classic elegance, and studiously adapted 
to internal comfort. It commands an extensive pros- 
pect, and is surrounded by a large domain, in whose 
arrangement the simple and grand features of nature 
have been carefully preserved. It is characterized by 
the fine wood in its rear, and the magnificent forest 
trees by which it is overshadowed, especially by its 
noble oaks, some of which bear the antiquity of cen- 
turies. 

It was erected by the late James A. Hillhouse, on a 
portion of his paternal inheritance. Seldom has it 
been the lot of a poet to dwell in such an abode. He 
has thus simply described it, and also expressed his at- 
tachment to the scenes of his nativity, in the poem 
entitled " Sachem's Wood." 

" Here, from this bench, the gazer sees 
Towers, and white steeples o'er the trees, 
Mansions that peep from leafy bowers. 
And villas, blooming close by ours. 



284 HON. JAMES HTLLHOUSE. 



Seldom a rural scene you see 

So full of sweet variety, — 

The gentle objects near at hand, 

The distant, flowing, bold, and grand ; 

I've seen the world, from side to side, 

Walked in the ways of human pride. 

Moved in the palaces of kings, 

And know what wealth to grandeur brings ; 

The spot for me, of all the earth. 

Is this, the dear one of my birth.' 



»? 



In this mansion the father of the poet, the Hon. 
James Hillhouse, closed a life of usefulness and piety. 
He possessed a strong and original mind, an untiring 
industry, with that uprightness and tenderness of 
heart, which won the confidence of the public, and 
the love of those with whom he intimately associated. 
He was the oldest member of the Senate of the Uni- 
ted States, when he resigned the seat which he had 
filled for sixteen years ; and when he left the financial 
management of the School fund, it was found that it 
had more than doubled its value, while under his 
superintendence. The city of his residence, whose 
fair greens and waving trees render it in summer, 
especially during the leafy month of June, one of the 
most picturesque spots in New England, owes much 
to his public spirit and personal labor. The lofty 
elms, planted by his own hand, are among his monu- 
ments. Age did not impair his mental powers, or 
chill his purposes of philanthropy. In the language 
of his son, 



I 



JAMES A. HILLHOUSE. 285 

*' None saw his spirit in decay, 
None saw his vigor ebb away." 

In his seventy-ninth year he was removed, as a sen- 
tinel from his post, without the warning of a moment, 
but not unprepared for the transition. 

His son, James A. Hillhouse, both sustained and 
brightened the honors of his ancestry. The delicacy 
and grace which mingled with his masculine force of 
intellect, seemed an infusion from the mind of his 
mother, and he was ever proud to acknowledge that 
deep and sweet influence, which he repaid with the 
warmest filial love. His native taste for literature 
was fostered by education, and on the reception of his 
second degree at Yale College, he pronounced an 
Oration on the " Education of a Poet," of such finished 
excellence, as to attract peculiar attention. 

In it, he says, " From the riches of ancient learning, 
to which he will first be introduced while acquiring 
the rudiments of a classical education, the poet will 
derive incalculable benefit. Amid the treasures of 
antiquity, he will find the productions of many a kin- 
dred spirit, and while he listens to their sweetness and 
majesty, the fire of genius will burn within him. 

" In the earlier stages of his progress, pains should be 
taken to reduce their beauties to a level with his com- 
prehension, and as he becomes skilled in antique lore, 
they should be his chosen companions. His daily and 
nightly labor should be to comprehend the force of 
their ideas, and the beauties of their expressions. Every 



286 EDUCATION OF A POET, 

passage distinguished for its elegance should be in his 
memory, and every image of peculiar felicity familiar 
to his thoughts. Not to remedy barrenness, or enrich 
his own productions by purloining from their stores, 
but because by incessant converse with whatever is 
great and noble, the soul acquires a correspondent 
elevation." 

After speaking of the necessity of an extensive ac- 
quaintance with history, the productions of modern 
genius, and a close observation of the beauties of na- 
ture, he thus proceeds. 

"This connection of the events of history and fic- 
tion with the scenery of Nature, begets for it an enthu- 
siastic fondness, and enlarges its utility by causing it 
to excite deeper attention. To a vigorous and highly 
cultivated imagination the contemplation of nature 
seems like an intercourse with divinity. The soft lux- 
uriance of a blooming landscape, or the rich and 
blended tints of an evening sky, fill it vVith emotions as 
exquisite, as they are inexpressible. And this sensi- 
bility .should be strengthened by frequent indulgence 
as a frame of mind, strongly prompting to poetic effu- 
sion. Let not these remarks be derided as the fine- 
spun labors of a visionary, assiduously describing feel- 
ings which never had existence. Most probably they 
have been experienced by every strongly poetic mind 
since the hour when David, oh the summit of Zion, 
glanced from the vallies of Judea to the skies, and 
smitten with their grandeur, broke forth into the rap- 



EDUCATION OF A POET. 287 



turous exclamation : ' The Heavens declare the glory 
of God ! ' 

''But every precept which has been given, will be in- 
efficacious in forming the mind of the Poet, unless, aloof 
from the world, much of his time be passed in solitude 
and reflection. Here alone he can examine nature, 
and here the seeds of education must acquire full 
maturity." 

" Such is the outline of the education which should 
expand poetical genius into perfection. A rude sketch 
of the subject only could be given here. The poet 
should indeed be acquainted with all that man can 
know; for every art, and every science, every depart- 
ment of learning, and every object in nature, may 
subserve for the decoration of his page. But ever 
mindful of the awful truth that man's ' life is a vapor 
which continueth a little time and then vanisheth 
away,' all his research should tend either directly, or 
through the medium of reason, to the improvement of 
sensibility and imagination, the instruments of his 
great design. Thus heaven-directed genius shall en- 
wreath the brow with laurels of immortal verdure, and 
enroll its name forever in the record of wisdom and 
the song of beauty." 

This elegant composition, which still remains un- 
published, gained for its young author the appoint- 
ment of poet at the next anniversary of the Phi-Beta- 
Kappa Society. It was inferred that one, who could 
so accurately delineate the true nurture and aliment 



" rw^I1r^ TTTt-vi-'HTC 1^:11 " 



288 POEM OF " THE JUDGMENT. 



of poesy, must be able to exemplify its power. The 
reasoniiio- was in this instance correct, though it has 
been said of more than one casuist in the realm of 
fancy, that, like Moses, he could point out the promised 
land, without the ability to enter it. 

Here it was proved, that there was indeed no inter- 
dict. Yet it is perhaps an unparalleled fact in the 
history of mind, that one altogether unpractised in 
metrical composition should produce, as a first effort, 
a poem of such lofty imagery, so polished in diction, 
and sublime in spirit, as " The Judgment." His 
knowledge of the secret springs of poetic impulse, 
and the innate and versatile powers of his own language, 
here burst forth with Miltonic energy. That he should 
go on in the career of excellence, and win for himself, 
on both sides of the Atlantic, a high place in the 
temple of fame, might have been expected. 

Several years of the early part of his life were 
devoted to mercantile business. In this his heart had 
no share. But the diligence and self-denial with 
which he subjected strong, native tastes to what he 
considered his duty, proved the correct balance and 
healthful state of his moral powers. During this peri- 
od he visited Europe, where his attainments did not 
fail of their appreciation. There was about him that 
uprightness, nobleness, and courtesy, indicative of 
what some writer has styled the " old, unfaded English 
mind." 

After his congenial and happy marriage, the greater 



ILLNESS AND DEATH. 2S9 

part of nearly twenty years, that still remained to him, 
was spent in his native city, between those intellectual 
pursuits and rural occupations, which relieve and 
dignify each other. An edition of such of his works, 
both in prose and poetry, as he thought proper to 
select, was given to the public during the last year of 
his life, and ranks among the best specimens of Ameri- 
can literature. It was then little thought that this sift 
to his country would prove a valedictory. Yet while 
his intercourse with the external world was but slightly 
changed, there were those nearest his heart w-ho 
anxiously marked the " fading brow, the sinking eye." 
After a brief illness, which gave, until the point of 
fatal termination, no distinct announcement of dancrer, 
he passed away, just at the opening of the year 1841. 

The intelligence of an event which afflicted so many 
friends, awoke the followinop effusion from one absent 
in a foreicrn clime : 



s 



A troubled sound upon thy heaving breast 
Thou bear'st, old ocean, from my native strand 
A sound of wo ! And art thou gone to rest, 
Thou of the noble soul, and tuneful band? 

I saw thee last within thy pleasant dome, 

Thy fair, ancestral oaks, in glory spreading, 
While every blest affection round thy home. 

And through thy heart a genial warmth was shed- 
ding. 

19 



290 OPINION OF A BROTHER. 

Yet now, while sullen sounds the wintry wind, 
I sadly mourn thee, on this Gallic shore, 

Ordained amid mine own loved land to find 

One friend the less, and one cold tomb-stone more ; 

But thou, for whom such bitter tears are shed, 

Thy glowing strains shall live, when Friendship's self 
is dead. 



His brother, for many years a resident in Europe, re- 
marks to a member of the family : " His compositions, 
in prose and verse, are before the American people, to 
whom it pertains to stamp his reputation as an author, 
and to assign his rank in the risinij literature of our 
country. Competent judges have already pronounced, 
that it has never produced a writer of more refined and 
cultivated taste, or more graceful and polished style. 
To his relatives and intimate friends, who alone could 
fully appreciate his virtues, it belongs to do justice to 
his moral worth, by declaring that few persons acted 
under a deeper and more habitual sense of duty, or 
labored more faithfully for their own improvement; 
one great part of the allotted task of man." 

An author well qualified to know and to express what 
fraternal love thus left unsaid, the Rev. William 
I> Kip, has permitted us to use the following just 
tribute. 

" Of the loss of Mr. Hillhouse, as a man, none can 
fitly speak but those who, like the writer of this 
brief sketch, knew him well and loved him much. It 



TRIBUTE OF A FRIEND. 291 

was crushing an object, around which were clustering 
the fond affections of many hearts. It was quenching 
the light, which shed its rays over a wide circle. In 
his beautiful residence, the same little group has gath- 
ered, as of old, but he who formed its life and soul is 
gone. They behold from the windows the same 
bright landscape, stretching out in its beauty, yet the 
eyes which once dwelt with so much pleasure on the 
view, and which could behold so readily * a glory in the 
grass, and a splendor in the flower,' are closed for- 
ever. The 'old ancestral oaks' wave their branches, 
and their leaves rustle to the breeze, but that ear, to 
which the sound once came as music, listens to them 
no longer. He is sleeping with his fathers in the still 
and quiet churchyard, yet resting there, we trust, * in 
the sure and certain hope of a glorious resurrection.' 
His virtues are enbalmed in the hearts of his friends, 
for to them he can now only be united by the chain 
of memory running back to what he once was, and 
the aspirings of faith, stretching forward to what he 
now is. But his works belong to the literature of his 
country, and will ever secure to him a lofty station 
among the poets of America." 



292 TRENTON FALLS. 



TRENTON FALLS. 



Beautiful Waters! sparkling, free, 
Spanning the globe with your ministry, — 
In the tireless might of an angel's wing, 

Sent from the courts above, 
Tidings of mercy and peace to bring 

To man, the child of love. 
Onward ye press, in your mission proud. 

And still with spirit free 
Receive the wealth of the weeping cloud, 

And bury it in the sea. 



The little fountain in the wild, 
The play-place of the laughing child. 
Who dreams, as he mocks its bubbling force. 
With his tiny feet to bar its course, 
Strikes a line of silver out. 
And the wild flowers follow it all about. 

While the winged seeds that the breezes bear, 
Make their cell on its margin fair. 



TRENTON FALLS. 293 



Perchance it singeth a tuneful song, 
A song to the pebbles rude, 

Or tells them a tale, as it glideth along, 
Of joy and gratitude : 

A tale that softeneth hearts of stone, 

But theirs are hard, and it hurrieth on, 
For it may not stay, it may not stay 
On its master's errand, night or day. 



It claspeth the hand of its brother streams, 

And runneth a merrier race. 
As down the far cliff, where the eagle screams, 
They gladly leap ; or through meadows sheen, 
Tracked by their fringe of a brighter green. 

Rush on to its embrace. 



Anon, it spreadeth a broader tide. 
And over its breast the fisher's boat 
And the snowy sail doth lightly float. 
Till in the fullness of beauty's pride. 
And veiled in mist, like a graceful bride, 
It plighteth its faith, at the ocean's brim, 
And the marriage-song is his thunder-hymn. 



But thou, along whose banks we stray, 

'T was not for thee to choose. 
Mid quiet flowers and reeds thy way. 
Nor with the whispering willows play. 
That idly droop and muse. 



294 TRENTON FALLS. 



A rugged path 't was tliine to tread, 
Disputing with the rocks thy bed, 

And inch by inch, with deafening din, 
Thy troubled course to steer, 
Stiil through adversity severe 

Thy fame to win. 



No cloud upon the summer air ! 
The forest-boughs are green and fair. 

And joyous beings tread 
The slippery margin of thy tide, 
That on, from plunge to plunge, doth glide 

So beautiful and dread. 
Hark ! to a cry of wild degpair. 

Echoing from yon guarded dell. 
While the imprisoned flood doth to fierce mad- 
ness swell. 



Where is that lovely one. 
Of fawn-like step, and cherub air. 
And blooming brow, unmarked by care? 

Troubled Torrent, tell me where ! 
She marked thee with admiring eye. 

Thy verdant marge, thy craggy steep. 

Thy boiling eddies, bold and deep, 
Thy white mist, curtaining to the sky ; 

Where is she now ? with sorrow wild, 
I hear the parents' voice, lamenting for their child. 



TRENTON FALLS. 295 



Thou, terrible in beauty! hold thy way, 
Foaming, and full of wrath. Thy deeds shall be 

Graved on yon altar-piece of frowning rock. 
That every worshipper, who bows to thee, 

May read the record, and indignant mock 
Thy siren charms. And henceforth, she, who 

cruides 
Some darling child along thy treacherous tides. 

Marking the trophy thou hast torn 
From fond affection's heart, shall turn away, and 
mourn. 



Would that it were not so, — 
That no dark shade of woe 
Marred thine exceeding beauty. Then the breast 
That heaves with rapture at this glorious scene. 
Might hoard thine image, stainless and serene, 
Wrapped in the light sublime 
That at Creation's prime 
Fair Eden blest. 
Ere at its gate the sword of flame 
Told with a warning voice, the lapse of grief and 
shame. 



Trenton Falls, upon the West Canada Creek, are at 
the distance of a pleasant drive from the city of Utica. 
None who are thus near, should, unless impelled by 
necessity, depart without paying them a visit. 

The river, in its descent to a rocky ravine, makes 



•29G 



PICTURESQUE SCENERY. 



three successive leaps, or efforts to effect a passage. 
These, together, comprise more than a hundred feet, 
though neitlier of the separate cataracts are of any 
remarkable height. The stream sweeps on sinuously 
between each of these plunges, but gains no interval 
of rest, being broken upon pointed rocks that contest 
its course. These are of dark limestone, and rise in 
cliffs, from one hundred to one hundred and thirty feet, 
crested with evergreens of fir, spruce, and hemlock, 
like the waving plumes in the helmet of some ancient 
chieftain on the battle-day. 

Our visit to Trenton Falls was immediately after a 
heavy rain, when, every crevice in the rocky path 
beinor filled to overflowinop, we seemed to tread amid 
bowls of water. The intense heat of a July sun beat 
upon our heads, and radiated from the surrounding 
precipices ; but the cool breath of the stream, and the 
foliage from every narrow cleft around and above us, 
striking out in wreaths and festoons, gave continual 
refreshment, while the surpassing beauty of that seques- 
tered dell dispelled every sensation of discomfort. 

Still it seemed more fatiguing to explore Trenton 
than Niagara. The paths are slippery and precipitous, 
and it cannot be forgotten how repeatedly they have 
led to the tomb. The allusion, in the foregoing poem, 
is to a beautiful child of Colonel Thorne, so long a 
resident in Paris, who, in visiting this scene with her 
parents and family, slipped from the hand of the ser- 
vant who led her, and was lost in the foaming depths. 



MOURNFUL ASSOCIATIONS. 297 

Others also have perished here, of whom it might 
be gaid, in the sweet strains of our lamented melodist, 
Willis Ga}4ord Clarke, 

" It was but yesterday, that all before thee 

Shone in the freshness of life's morning hours, — 
Joy's radiant smile was playing brightly o'er thee, 
And thy light feet impressed but vernal flowers. 

How have the garlands of thy beauty whhered ! 

And hope's false anthem died upon the air ! 
Death's sudden tempests o'er thy way have gathered. 

And his stern bolts have burst in fury there." 

The Falls at Trenton, are perhaps more indescriba- 
ble than even the great Niagara, which, throwing the 
mind continually back on the Almighty Creator, can 
in some measure be delineated through the solemnity 
and sublimity of the emotions it creates. But Tren- 
ton exhibits a ceaseless, bewildering change of the 
surprising and beautiful, a sort of Protean character, 
a chamelion tint, which neither pen nor pencil can 
arrest, without injustice or failure. Go, and see for 
yourselves. 



298 THE SNOW-STORM. 



THE SNOW-STORM. 

How quietly the snow comes down, 

When all are fast asleep, 
And plays a thousand fairy pranks 

O'er vale and mountain steep. 
How cunningly it finds its way 

To every cranny small, 
And creeps through even the slightest chink 

In window, or in wall. 

To every noteless hill it brings 

A fairer, purer crest 
Than the rich ermine robe that decks 

The haughtiest monarch's breast. 
To every reaching spray it gives 

Whate'er its hand can hold — 
A beauteous thing the snow is, 

To all, both young and old. 

The waking day, through curtaining haze, 
Looks forth, with sore surprise. 

To view what changes have been wrought 
Since last she shut her eyes; 



TUE SNOW-STORM. 299 



And a pleasant thing it is to see 

The cottage children peep 
From out the drift, that to their eaves 

Prolongs its rampart deep. 

The patient farmer searches 

His buried lambs to find, 
And dig his silly poultry out, 

Who clamor in the wind ; 
How sturdily he cuts his way, 

Though wild blasts beat him back, 
And caters for his waiting herd 

Who shiver round the stack. 

Right welcome are those feathery flakes 

To the ruddy urchins' eye, 
As down the long, smooth hill they coast, 

With shout and revelry ; 
Or when the moonlight, clear and cold, 

Calls out their throng to play — 
Oh ! a merry gift the snow is 

For a Christmas holiday. 



The city miss, who, wrapped in fur, 

Is lifted to the slei(yh. 
And borne so daintily to school " 

Along the crowded way, 



300 THE SNOW-STORM. 



Feels not within her pallid cheek 
The rich blood mantling warm, 

Like her who, laughing, shakes the snow 
From powdered tress and form. 



A tasteful hand the snow hath — 

For on the storied pane 
I saw its Alpine landscapes traced 

With arch and sculptured fane, 
Where high o'er hoary-headed cliffs 

The dizzy Simplon wound, 
And old cathedrals reared their towers 

With Gothic tracery bound. 



I think it hath a tender heart, 

For I marked it while it crept 
To spread a sheltering mantle where 

The infant blossom slept. 
It doth to Earth a deed of love — 

Though in a wintry way ; 
And her turf-gown will be greener 

For the snow that's fallen to-day. 



The occurrence of slight snow-storms, being unusu- 
ally frequent during the autumn of 1843, I amused 
myself with making the following simple calendar of 
them in their order of succession. 



FLOWER-GARDEN. 301 



Monday, October 23d. 
Snow ! Snow ! Who could have expected such a 
guest, now in the very autumn prime ? The sun was 
shining so gloriously too, at early morning. The trees 
stand utterly amazed, in their rich robes of crim- 
son, and orange, and brown, like dowagers in their 
court-dresses, arrested on their way to the palace. 
Especially, are the flower-people incommoded and 
struck with consternation. The roses, with their bosoms 
full of snow, look indignant, and redden to a wrath- 
glow, while the meek verbenas and violets at their feet 
partake less of the chilling shower, for dwelling so 
humbly suh-rosa. The buxom marigold lifts her hardy 
cheek with a smile, as if to say "I'll make the best 
of it," while the aristocratic dahlias curb their chins 
in displeasure. Well, this is a republican clime, my 
ladies. It respecteth not your high-sounding titles of 
countesses and queens. Crowns and coronets are at 
a discount in this pilgrim-planted land, and the snow 
settleth as saucily upon them, as upon the unbonnetted 



cottager. 



Yonder, ensconced in a snug recess, are two Hydran- 
geas, with their broad purple and pink faces bending 
towards each other, like a pair of rustic lovers in a 
tete-a-tete. How aghast they look when the snow 
discovers and parts them. That tiny lakelet at their 
side, which shone like a mirror in the morning ray, 
how it swallows the chill morsels with a dim and 
sullen face. Up come the gold and silver fishes, their 



302 BURIAL OF AN INFANT. 

smart liveries powdered with the insinuating flakes. 
Keep your gills close, my gay piscatorials, and don't 
nibble at those floating nodules, mistaking them for 
crumbs .of Naples biscuit. In the same nook is a 
prim-bushj badly trimmed, reaching forth its angular 
arms and claw-shaped fingers to gather all it can. 
Methinks it is of the miser-genus. Friend Prim, 
dreamest thou that thou hast gotten gold? Well, 
make the most of thy cold handfuls. Peradventure 
it may last thee as long as the winged riches in which 
thy betters trust. 

While the beauties of the garden, bear their rebuke 
as they may, lo ! there passeth by a blighted bud of 
our own higher nature. An infant with its funeral 
train, goeth slowly homeward to its last repose. They 
divide the snow-wreaths to lay it by the side of its 
young mother. Thou canst nestle no more into her 
bosom, poor babe, it is marble cold. She stretcheth 
forth no fond arm to Welcome and enfold thee. Only 
a few times didst thou gaze upon her, ere she hasted 
away to the angels. Yet, shall not the bright drops of 
that affection, which were shed into her heart amid 
extremest agony, be gathered up in Heaven, and flow 
on as the river of life, an eternal stream ? 



li 



Oh ! when a mother meets on high, 
The babe she left in its infancy, 
Is there not then, for all her fears, 

The day of woe, the watchful night, 
For all her sorrows, all her tears. 

An over-paymeiit of delight? " 



CONSULTATION OF BIRDS. 303 

Tuesday, November 7th. 
Well done, Mr. Saggitarius, thou hast brought us a 
fair gift, notwithstanding thy belligerent moods, and 
thy skill in archery ! snow-flakes, falling as quietly as 
the slumbers of innocence. This is better than to 
pierce us with thy frosty arrows, or smite us with 
ague-fits. 

The birds, however, are mightily discomposed. They 
convene in noisy Congress, clamoring for immediate 
emigration. Troops of orators mount the rostrum, 
vociferating, vanishing, and returning to the charge. 
Many more speakers than hearers, and no chairman to 
call them to order. How the black-birds chatter and 
gesticulate, and what throngs of swallows besiege yon- 
der old church-steeple. My eloquent gentry, I counsel 
you forthwith to commence your journey ; for, as the 
ancient proverb elegantly saith, " great cry, and little 
wool," so this babel-like discussion helpeth not for- 
ward your weary pilgrimage. Please remember us 
among the groves of the Bosphorus, or the gardens of 
the Nile, and come back with the spring-flowers, — and 
so, farewell. 

The domestic fowls congregate under the fences, or 
hay-stacks, with a remarkable solemnity. Chicklings of 
the last summer, who have had no regular introduc. 
tion to the snow, dip their bills in it and look grave. 
Perhaps, like chemists, they are essaying to analyze it. 
The young house-cat, having the antipathy of her 
race to wet feet, steps into the new element, and sud- 



304 INDIAN SUMMER. 



denly draws back, steps again, and draws back : then 
with long leaps gains the shelter of the kitchen- 
threshold, and applies her soothing lips, to her mal- 
treated paws. 

But what exultation among the boys, who rushing 
from school discover it. How it clino^s with a humid 
tenacity to their caps and shoulders, for the careful 
mother to brush off, when they reach home. With 
what zeal they gather it in their hands, the merry 
urchins. How eagerly they anticipate their winter- 
sports, which suit so well the quick flowing blood of 
the young. Often have I watched the bright-browed 
throngs of Boston boys, gliding with swift sled over 
their noble Common, and rejoiced in their joy, and 
blessed the wisdom of thos,e law-givers, who protect 
the happiness of children. 

Wednesday, November^ 29th. 

The beautiful Indian-summer, which our poor abo- 
rigines used to call " the smile of the Great Spirit," 
hath been among us. With its elastic breath, it quick- 
ened all the springs of life. Between the storms, it 
stole hither, touching the faded leaf with its early hues, 
and the skies with their cloudless azure, rekindling the 
scarlet of the woodbine and hardy rose, and whisper- 
ing to our hearts of the cheerful patience that should 
arm them for winter's adversity. It wrapped the dis- 
tant landscape in soft mists, like a dream of Paradise. 
Then, foreseeing the evil time, it vanished, while 



ANNUAL THANKSGIVING. 305 



the snow-spirit made haste to whiten its robe as it de- 
parted. 

Thursday, November 30th. 
A little snow this evening, a few hoarse threats 
from the winds, and then the clouds relented. They 
would not cast a lastincp shade over New Eno-land's 
almost sole festival. For this day is her annual 
Thanksgiving, set apart by the fathers amid colonial 
toil and privation, when, amid the scanty harvest, the 
rude hovel, or the Indian conspiracy. 



They sliook the depths of the desert-gloom 
With their hymns of lofty cheer." 



Methinks even the pitiless storm would not willingly 
blot out the joy of the child, preparing to return to 
its home, from a distant school, or from service, to 
brighten, for a brief season, the loved circle around 
the hearth-stone. 

Hark ! the steam-engine shrieks, the mellow stage- 
horn winds, and see,- they come. The spruce, young 
collegian arrives, ready to display new stores of knowl- 
edge to his wondering sisters; and the soberly-clad 
apprentice grasps heartily with his hardened hand 
that of parent or friend. A carriage stops at the door 
of a pleasant farm-house. A fair, young woman, who 
at the last Thanksgiving wore the white robe of the 
bride, descends, and with her husband enters the home 
of her nativity. 
20 



306 farmer's family. 

What does she bring with her ? What is so cun- 
ningly concealed beneath her warm mantle ? Lo ! a 
little rose-bud, with a beating heart. How its laro-e, 
clear eyes expand with wonder, as the young people, 
proud of their new titles of uncle and aunt, unsheath 
it from its convolutions of soft blankets, and cover 
its face with kisses. The new father mingles in the 
group with rapturous delight, and bends on her, who 
has thus completed the climax of his joys, that smile 
of the heart which effaces every care. The grand- 
parents welcome this young scion of their house with 
secret pride ; yet taught, by long experience in life's 
changeable road, to chastise that buoyant sentiment, 
they wear a sedate gravity, as they lead the way to the 
laden board. 

Invoking Heaven's blessing on their happiness, all 
zealously address themselves to the work before them. 
Justice must be done to the huge turkey, and the 
chickens, which they themselves have reared ; the nu- 
merous tarts must all be tasted, as they are the pro- 
ductions of the young daughters; nor must the fruits 
and nuts be slighted, which the boys have so carefully 
gathered. The satisfaction of a feast in a farmer's 
family is heightened by knowing the history of every 
viand, or having had some agency in preparing it for 
its post of honor. 

But see, passing the window is a melancholy 
stranger, pale with home-sickness. His heart is with 
the spot of his nativity, in the distant halls where 



HOSPITALITY AND BENEVOLENCE. 307 

his childhood grew. Here are no fond eyes to wel- 
come him, no kind voice to bid him to the hospitable 
repast. 

Send thou, and gather him as a sheaf into thy 
garner. Make glad his soul with the incense of thy 
fireside charities. So shall his smile of gratitude 
strike to the depths of thine own spirit, and dry its 
secret tears. 

Oh, at this festival, and at that still more sacred 
one, of our dear Lord's nativity, forget not the forgot- 
ten, nor the forsaken, nor the poor. For if thou hast 
sent portions unto the needy, and if the stranger or 
the orphan sitteth beside thee at thy board, thine own 
feast shall be the sweeter, and be remembered at the 
banquet on high. 



308 THE DESERTED NEST. 



THE DESERTED NEST. 



Flown ! Flown ! my little ones ? Your cunning house, 
So deftly hid beneath the mantling vine, 
Quite empty ? 

But a few short days it seems, 
Since first we spied you, a strange, breathing mass, 
Unfledged and shapeless, with bright, staring eyes, 
And ever-open beak. We often came 
To inspect your tiny tenement, because 
Your parents were our lodgers, in a nook 
Of the piazza, where the vine-leaves curled. 
And thatched it like a cottage. They were out 
Most of their time, upon the busy wing, 
Seeking your food, while you at leisure lived, 
Eating and chirping, with an equal zeal 
Alternately ; for whatsoe'er they brought 
Was eagerly received. I feared you 'd be 
Such gormandizers, that you 'd never* learn 
Your gamut ; for you certainly were blest 
With a most wondrous appetite. And still, 
To help the matter on, my little girl 
Amused herself by dropping now and then 
A small green grape into your gaping mouths. 



THE DESERTED NEST. 309 

Feeling so very sure 't would do you good. 

But as for me, I had a thousand fears 

Of cholera, and all* the latent ills 

That birds are heir to, and with fainter step 

Stole every morning to your curtained couch, 

Filled with sad visions of your early death. 

But lo! you grew like mushrooms, and your sires, 

Who screamed at first with terror, when we drew 

So near their hopeful race, at length became 

Quite passive to our visits, and partook 

Our scattered crumbs complacently. 

Yet now, 

You 're gone, my birds, and I shall miss you much. 

Both morn and eve. 

Methinks you were too young 

To try your fortune in this world of snares. 

And much I fear that some marauding cat, 

With her keen feline tastes in exercise, 

May seize and bear you, with your tender wings 

All helpless, hanging from. her whisker'd mouth, 

A ffift to her voracious little ones. 

Yet hence with such forebodings, — and I '11 think 

When from yon shrubbery I hear a song, 

Trembling with sweet, unpractised melody. 

It is your descant. 

How will ye obtain 

Your sustenance, thus sent as wanderers forth, 

Mid all the ignorance of infancy 

To cater for yourselves 1 

Yet this wide earth 



310 



THE DESERTED NEST. 



Is your refectory, and the light leaf 
That shivers on the gale, and the seamed trunk, 
And the fresh furrow where the ploughman treads, 
Show to your microscopic glance a feast 
Ready and full. 

Our Father feedeth you ! 
Ye gather not in store-house, or in barn, 
But seek your meat from Him. 

Would that we shared 
Your simple faith, — we who so duly ask 
Our daily bread, and yet distrust His hand 
Who feeds all creatures and upbraideth not. 
And when our homes below are desolate, 
Even like your empty nest, my winged ones, 
And when their eyes, who loved us here below. 
Shall seek and find us not, may we have risen 
Where melody shall know no dissonance, 
And love no parting flight. 



The habits of the migratory birds form a fruitful 
subject of observation and inquiry. The unerring in- 
stinct that guides them through the trackless fields 
of air, avoiding the hostility of birds of prey, the 
comparative mystery of their residence in far distant 
regions, and the punctuality of their return, increase 
our respect for these winged friends, who from their 
lodgings upon the Sultan's harem, or amid the gardens 
of the Nile, remember their brown nest in the thorn- 
hedge, or the cottage-roof, and compass earth and 
ocean to rebuild it. 



BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 311 

IIovv beautifully has an English naturalist remarked : 
" When we think for a moment that the swallows, 
martins, and swifts, that sport in our summer skies, 
and become inhabitants of our houses, will presently 
be dwellino- in the heart of regions which we long in 

O O o 

vain to know, and whither we travellers toil in vain to 
penetrate; that they will anon affix their nests to the 
Chinese pagoda, the Indian temple, or beneath the 
Equator, to the palm-thatched eaves of the African 
hut; that the small birds which populate our hedges 
and fields, will quickly spread themselves with the 
cuckoo over the warm regions beyond the pillars of 
Hercules, and the wilds of the Levant, of Greece and 
Syria; that the nightingale will be serenading in the 
chestnut groves of Italy and the rose-gardens of Per- 
sia ; that the thrush and the field-fare, that share our 
winter, will pour out triumphant music in their native 
wastes, in the sudden summers of Scandinavia, the 
desolate rocks in the lonely ocean, the craggy and misty 
isles of the Orkneys and Shetlands; the wild swan 
rewinging its way through the lofty regions of the 
cloud to Iceland, and other arctic lands, — we feel how 
much poetry is connected with these wanderers of the 
earth." 

We are led still more to feel His infinite wisdom 
and goodness, who maketh them to know their appoint- 
ed time : — 

Who marketh their course through the tropics bright, 
W^ho nerveth their wing for its weary flight, 



312 MIGRATIONS. 



And guideth their caravan's trackless way 
By the star at night and the cloud by day. 

The Indian fig, with its arching screen, 
Welcomes them in to its vistas green, — 
And the breathing buds of the spicy tree. 
Thrill at the burst of their melody ; 
And the bulbul starts, and his carol clear, 
Such a rushing of stranger-wings to hear. 

O wild-wood wanderers ! though far away 
From your summer homes in our vales ye stray, 
Yet when they awake at the call of spring. 
We shall see you again with your glancing wing, 
Your nest mid yon waving trees to raise, 
And teach our spirits their Maker's praise. 



THE WASHINGTON ELM. 313 



THE WASHINGTON ELM, 

AT CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS. 



Words ! Words, Old Tree ! Thou hast an aspect fair, 
A vigorous heart, a heaven-aspiring crest. 

And sleepless memories of the days that were 
Lodge in thy branches, like the song-bird's nest. 

Words ! give us words ! Methought a gathering blast 
Mid its green leaves began to murmur low. 

Shaping its utterance to the mighty Past, 

That backward came, on pinions floating slow. 

" The ancient masters of the soil I knew. 
Whose cane-roofed wigwams flecked the forest brown, 

Their hunter-footsteps swept the early dew. 
And their keen arrow struck the eagle down. 

I heard the bleak December tempest moan, 

When the tossed May-Flower moored in Plymouth 
Bay ; 

And watched yon classic walls, as stone by stone 
The fathers reared them slowly toward the day. 



314 THE WASHINGTON ELM. 



But lo ! a mighty Chieftain 'neath my shade, 

Drew his bright sword, and reared his dauntless 
head, 

And Liberty sprang forth from rock and glade, 
And donned her helmet for the hour of dread : 

While in the hero's heart there dwelt a prayer, 
That Heaven^s protecting arm might never cease, 

To make his young, endangered land its care, 

Till through the war-cloud looked the angel Peace. 

Be wise, my children," said that ancient Tree, 
In earnest tone, as though a Mentor spake," 

" And prize the blood-bought birthright of the free. 
And firmly guard it, for your country's sake." 

Thanks, thanks. Old Elm ! and for this counsel sage, 
May heaven thy brow with added beauty grace, 

Grant richer emeralds to thy crown of age. 
And changeless honors from a future race. 



This fine old Elm, on the Common, at Cambridge, 
doubtless a remnant of the primeval forest, has a heri- 
tage of glory. Beneath its shade, Washington first 
drew his sword, as Commander-in-Chief of the Amer- 
ican army. It is thus associated with one of the most 
important eras in our history, and in the life of that 
illustrious man, who was " first in war, first in peace. 



INTERESTING LOCALITY. ' 315 

and first in the hearts of his countrymen." From the 
flash of that sword, beneath these branches, until it 
was finally sheathed at Yorktown, what heart-stirring 
events transpired for the historian, the politician, and 
the poet. The drama, which was conceived and com- 
menced by the " Bay State," the noble mother of 
New England, and which in its progress more or less 
convulsed every member of the " Old Thirteen," 
reached its catastrophe and termination of glory in 
the " Ancient Dominion," where first the Saxon vine 
took root in the soil of this New World. 

The venerated Tree, thus forever connected with 
the memory of the Father of our country, has a fitting 
and beautiful locality. Its foliage almost sweeps the 
walls of the most ancient University in the United 
States, for which the first appropriation was made in 
1636, the year after the fathers of Connecticut took 
their departure from Cambridge, and began the settle- 
ment of Hartford. 

It is touching and even sublime to recall the efforts 
made by our ancestors, to secure the means of educa- 
tion for their descendants, while themselves enduring 
the hardships and privations attendant on colonial life. 
Sixteen years from the first landing on the snow-clad 
rock of Plymouth had scarcely elapsed, ere they laid 
the plan of a collegiate institution, the poorest con- 
tributing from his poverty, perhaps only a bushel of 
corn, or a single volume, yet given with gladness and 
in hope. The infant colonies of Connecticut and 



316 ZEAL FOR EDUCATION. 



New Haven, testified also their sympathy and good 
neighborhood, by a benefaction from every family, of 
tw^elve pence or a peck of corn, — gifts of no slight 
value in those days of simplicity. 

How truly was it said by our ancestors, in a work 
written more than two hundred years since : " After 
God had carried us safe to New England, and we had 
builded our houses, provided necessaries for our live- 
lihood, reared convenient places for God's worship, 
and settled the civil government, one of the next 
things we longed for and looked after, was to advance 
learning, and perpetuate it to posterity." 

The Washington Elm is also in the vicinity of the 
sacred solitudes of Mount Auburn, that spot which 
has so often given a subject to the traveller and the 
bard, but whose unique beauty it is impossible to ap- 
preciate, without the privilege of musing amid its hal- 
lowed shades. 



FAREWELL TO NIAGARA. 317 



FAREWELL TO NIAGARA. 



My spirit grieves to sa}', Farewell to thee, 
Oh beautiful and criorious ! 

Thou dost robe 
Thyself in mantle of the colored mist, 
Most lightly tinged, and exquisite as thought, 
Decking thy forehead with a crown of gems 
Woven by God's right hand. 

Hadst thou but wrapped 
Thy brow in clouds, and swept the blinding mist 
In showers upon us, it had been less hard 
To part from thee. But there thou art, sublime 
In noon-day splendor, gathering all thy rays 
Unto their climax, green, and fleecy white, 
And changeful tinture, for which words of man 
Have neither sign nor sound, until to breathe 
Farewell is agony. For we have roamed 
Beside thee, at our will, and drawn thy voice 
Into our secret soul, and felt how good 
Thus to be here, until we half implored, 
While long in wildering ecstasy we gazed. 



318 



FAREWELL TO NIAGARA. 



To build us tMbernacles, and behold 
Always thy majesty. 

Fain would we dwell 
Here at thy feet, and be thy worshipper, 
And from the weariness and dust of earth 
Steal evermore away. Yea, were it not 
That many a care doth bind us here below, 
And in each care, a duty, like a flower, 
Thorn-hedged, perchance, yet fed with dews of 

heaven, 
And in each duty, an enclosed joy. 
Which like a honey-searching bee doth sing, — 
And were it not, that ever in our path 
Spring up our planted seeds of love and grief, 
Which we must watch, and bring their perfect fruit 
Into our Master's garner, it were sweet 
To linger here, and be thy worshipper. 
Until death's footstep broke this dream of life. 



And now, reader and friend, our hour of pleasant 
gossip is finished. We have said nothing of the 
pictured rocks, or the great western caverns, nor 
wandered together in spirit on the borders of our 
mighty lakes, or the shores of the " father of waters." 

No. I have spoken only of such places as "keepers 
at home" may readily reach, and which probably you 
have yourself visited. Still it is as useful, and vastly 
more convenient, to admire objects near at hand than 
those far away ; and on what the eye hath oft-times 



looked, we may still discover an unplucked flower, or an 
ungathered sunbeam, to cheer and to uplift the heart. 

I have frequently used, in this little book, the lan- 
guage of others ; sometimes, because I considered it 
better than my own ; and sometimes, because I remem- 
bered the saying, that there is no greater compliment 
to an author than to quote from his works. 

You will not, I hope, count it a deception, that 
while its title announces a description of scenes, its 
page so often presents those who have peopled them. 
I felt that a landscape was improved by figures, and 
that it was a solace made stronger by advancing 
years, thus to deepen the heart's memorial of the 
good and the lovely, who are no longer among the 
livinor. 

So now, reader and friend, unknown, perchance, but 
still a friend, Farewell. If it is morning with you, may 
the day be blessed and happy ; and if it is evening, 

" a fair good night. 
And pleasant dreams, and slumbers light." 

Hartford, Conn. Dec. 4, 1844. 



ifii 



'J 92 8^ 



Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing Agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: 




JUN 



1998 



jnna^KEEPER 



PRESERVATION TECHNOLOGIES. LP. 
1 1 1 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Township. PA 16066 
f724) 779-21 11 



